tKEASURb  KOOM 


George  Washington  Flowers 
Memorial  Collection 

DUKE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 


ESTABLISHED  BY  THE 
FAMILY  OF 

COLONEL  FLOWERS 


C^H 


'7' 


1 


ia.\>B 


'!^         SILAS    MARNER, 


J 


THE  WJ^AVER  OF  RAVEI.OE. 


ft\ 


C 


1 


' 


^  j; 


A 


t 


\\       "ADxVM  BEDE,"    •TliE  MILL  U.\  Till:  i-LU6S,"  AND  "SCENE 
OF  CLERICAL  LIFE." 


I? 


IV 


(MI3S   EVANS,    OF  LONDON.) 


MOBILE: 
S.   IT.    OOETZEL.    rFBLTRIIEn 

1863. 


Farrow  &  Dennett,  rrinters,  Jlobile. 


liii- 


81LAS    MARNEE, 


THE  WEAVER  OF  itAAH^JOV., 


nv  THE  AUTHOR  OF 


"ADAM  BEDE,"  "THE- MILL  ON 'TOE  FLOSS,"  AND    , 
"SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE.'" 


MOBILE: 
S.  U,  GOBTZRL,   PUBLISHER. 


PART  I. 


3*?3050 


SILAS    MARNER: 

THE  WEAVER  OF  RAVELOE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  the  days  when  the  spinning-wheels  hummed 
busily  in  the  farmhouses  —  and  even  great  ladies, 
clothed  in  silk  anPl  thread-lace,  had  their  toy  spinning- 
wheels  of  polished  oak — there  might  be  seen,  in  dis- 
tricts far  away  among  the  lanes,  or  deep  in  the  bosom 
of  the  hills,  certain  pallid  undersized  men,  who,  by 
the  side  of  the  brawny  country-folk,  looked  like  the 
remnants  of  a  disinherited  race.  The  shepherd's  dog 
barked  fiercely  when  one  of  these  alien-looking  men 
appealed  on  the  upland,  dark  against  the  early  winter 
sunset;  for  what  dog  likes  a  figure  bent  under  a  heavy 
bag  ? — and  these  pale  men  rarely  stirred  abroad  with- 
out that  mysterious  burden.  The  shepherd  himself, 
though  he  had  good  reason  to  believe  tl^at  the  bag 
held  nothing  but  flaxen  thread,  or  else  the  long  rollis 
of  strong  linen  spun  from  that  thread,  was  not  quite 
sure  that  this  trade  of  weaving,  indispensable  though 
it  was,  could  be  carried  on  entirely  without  the  help 
of  the  Evil  One.  In  that  far-oflf  time  superstition 
cliing  easily  round  every  person  or  thing  that  was  at 
all  unwonted,  or  even  intermittent  and  occasional 
merely,  like  the  visits  of  the  pedlar  or  the  knife-grind- 
er. ■  No  one  knew  where  wandering  men  had  their 


373050 


6  SILAS    MARKER. 

homes  or  tlieir  origiu  ;  and  liow  was  a  man  to  be  px- 
plained  unless  you  at  least  knew  somebody  who 
knew  his  father  and  mother  1  To  the  peasants  of  old 
times,  the  world  outside  their  own  direct  experience 
was  a  region  of  vagueness  and  mystery :  to  their  un- 
travelled  thought  a  state  of  wandering  was  a  concep- 
tion as  dim  as  the  winter  life  of  the  swallows  that 
came  back  with  the  spring ;  and  even  a  settler,  if  he 
came  from  distant  parts,  hardly  ever  ceased  to  be 
viewed  with  a  remnant  of  distrust,  which  would  have 
prevented  any  surprise  if  a  long  course  of  inoffensive 
conduct  on  his  part  had  ended  in  the  commission  of  a 
crime ;  especially  if  he  had  any  reputation  for  know- 
ledge, or  showed  any  skill  in  handicraft.  All  clever- 
ness, whether  in  the  rapid  use  of  that  difficult  instru- 
ment the  tongue,  or  in  some  other  art  unfamihar  to 
villagers,  was  in  itself  suspicious  :  honest  folks,  born 
and  bred  in  a  visible  manner,  were  mostly  not  over- 
wise  or  clever-<-at  least,  not  beyond  such' a  matter  as 
J  knowing  the  signs  of  the  weather  ;  and  the  process  by 
which  rapidity  and  dexterity  of  any  kind  were  acquir- 
ed was  so  wholly  hidden,  that  they  partook  of  the  na- 
ture of  conjuring.  In. this  way  it  came  to  pass  that 
those  scattered  linen-weavers  —  emigrants  from  the 
town  into  the  country — were  to  the  last  regarded  as 
aliens  by  their  rustic  neighbors,  and  usually  contract- 
ed the  eccentric  habits  which  belong  to  a  state  of 
loneliness. 

In  the  early  years  of  this  century,  such  a  linen- 
weaver,  named  Silas  Mamer,  worked  at  his  vocation 
in  a  stone  cottage  that  stood  among  the  nutty  hedge- 


SILAS    MABNEB.  7 

rows  near  the  village  of  Raveloe,  and  not  far  from  the 
edge  of  a  deserted  stone-pit.  The  questionable  sound 
of  Silas's  loom,  so  unlike  the  natural  cheerful  trotting 
of  the  winnowing  machine,  or  the  simpler  rhythm  of 
the  flail,  had  a  half-fearful  fascination  for  the  Raveloe 
boys,  who  would  often  leave  off  their  nutting  or 
birds'-nesting  to  peep  in  at  the  window  of  the  stone 
cottage,  Counterbalancing  a  certain  awe  at  the  mys- 
terious action  of  the  loom,  by  a  pleasant  sense  of 
scornful  superiority,  drawn  from  the  mockery  of  its 
alternating  noises,  along  with  the  bent,  tread-mill  atti- 
tude of  the  weaver.  But  sometimes  it  happened  that 
Marner,  pausing  to  adjust  an  irregularity  in. his  thread, 
became  aware  of  the  small  scoundrels,  and,  though 
chary  of  his  time,  he  liked  their  intrusion  so  ill  that 
he  would  descend  from  his  loom,  and,  opening  the 
door,  would  fix  on  them  a  gaze  that  was  always 
enough  to  make  them  take  to  their  legs  in  terror.  For 
how  was  it  possible  to  believe  that  those  large  brown 
protuberant  eyes  in  Silas  Marner's  pale  face  really  saw 
nothing  very  distinctly  that  was  not  close  to  them,  and 
not  rather  that  their  dreadful  stare  could  dart  cramp, 
or  rickets,  or  a  wry  mouth  at  any  boy  who  happened 
to  be  in  the  rear  1  They  had,  perhaps,  heard  their 
fathers  and  mothers  hint  that  Silas  Marner  could  cure 
folks'  rheumatism  if  he  had  a  mind,  and  add,  still 
more  darkly,  that  if  you  could  only  speak  the  devil 
fair  enough,  he  might  save  you  the  cost  of  the  doc- 
tor. Such  strange  lingering  echoes  6f  the  old  de- 
mon-worship might  perhaps  even  now  be  caught  by 
the  diligent  listener  among  the  grey-haired  peasantry; 


8  SILAS    MAKNEK. 

for  the  nide  mind  with  difficulty  associates  the  idea  of 
power  and  benignit3^  A  shadowy  conception  of  pow- 
er that  by  much  persuasion  can  be  induced  to  refrain 
from  inflicting  harm,  is  the  shape  most  easily  taken 
by  the  sense  of  the  Invisible  in  the  minds  of  men 
who  have  always  been  pressed  close  by  primitive 
wants,  and  to  whom  a  life  of  hard  toil  has  never  been 
illuminated  by  any  enthusiastic  religious  folth.  To 
them  pain  and  mishap  present  a  far  wider  range  of 
possibilities  than  gladness  and  enjoyment :  their  imag- 
ination is  almost  barren  of  the  images  that  feed  de- 
sire and  hope,  but  is  all  overgrown  by  recollections 
that  are  a  perpetual  pasture  to  fear.  "  Is  there  any- 
thing you  can  fancy  that  you  would  like  to  eat  V  I 
once  said  to  an  old  labouring  man,  who  was  in  his 
last  illness,  and  who  liad  refused  all  the  food  his  wife 
had  offered  him.  "No,"  he  answered,  "I've  never 
been  used  to  nothing  but  common  victual,  and  I  can't 
eat  that."  Experience  bad  bred  no  fancies  in  him 
that  could  raise  the  phantasm  of  appetite. 

And  Raveloe  was  a  village  where  many  of  the  old 
echoes  Ungered,  undrowned  by  new  voices.  Not  that 
it  was  one  of  those  barren  parishes  lying  on  the  out- 
skirts of  civilization — inhabited  by  meagre  sheep  and 
thinly-scattered  shepherds :  on  the  contrary,  it  lay  in 
the  rich  central  plain  of  what  we  are  pleased  to  call 
Merry  England,  and  held  farms  which,  speaking  from 
a  spiritual  point  of  view,  paid  highly  desirable  tithes. 
But  it  was  ne'^tled  iir  a  snug  well-wooded  hollow, 
quite  an  hour's  journey  on  horseback  from  any  turn- 
pike, where  it  was  never  reached  by  the  vibrations  of 


SILAS    MAK'XER  9 

the  coach-horn,  or  of  pubh'c  ophiion.  I'c  was  an  im- 
portant-lookhig  village,  with  a  fine  old  church  and 
large  churchyard  in  the  heart  of  it,  and  two  or  three 
large  brick-and-stone  homesteads,  with  well-walled 
orchards  and  ornamental  weather-cooks,  standing  close 
upon  the  road,  ^nd  lifting  more  imposing  fronts  than 
the  rectory,  whicn  peeped  from  among  the  tr»es  on 
the  other  side  of  the  churchyard  ; — a  village  which 
showed  at  once  the  summits  of  its  social  life,  and  told 
the  practised  eye  that  there  was  no  great  park  and 
manor-house  in  the  vicinity,  but  that  there  were  sev- 
eral chiefs  in  Eaveloe  who  could  farm  badly  quite  at 
their  ease,  drawing  enough  money  from  their  bad- 
farming,  in  those  war  times,  to  live  in  a  rollicking 
fashion,  and  keep  a  jolly  Christmas,  Whitsun,  and 
Easter  tide.  *    , 

It  was  fifteen  ^ears  since  Silas  Marner  had  fitst 
come  to  Raveloe  ;^]ie  was  then  simply  a  pallid  young 
man,  with  prominent,  short-sighted  brown  eyes, 
whose  appeAranc<^  wofuld  have  had  nothing  strange  for 
people  of  average  culture  and  experience,  but  for  the 
villagers  near  whom  he  had  come  to  settle  it  had 
mysterious  peculi^'iiies  which  corresponded  with  the 
exceptional  nature  of  his  occupation,  and  his  advent* 
from  an  unknown  regio^;called  "North'ard."  So  had 
his  way  of  life : — he  invited  no  comer  to  step  across 
his  doorsill,  and  he  never  strolled  into  the  village  to 
drink  a  pint  at  the  Rainbow,  or  to  gossip  at  the  wheel- 
wright's :  he  sought  no  man  or  woman,  save  for  the 
purposes  of  his  calling,  or  in  order  to  supply  himself 
with  necessaries  ;  and  it  was  soon  clear  to  the  Raveloe 


10  SILAS    MARNER. 

lasses  that  he  would  never  urge  one  of  them  to  accept 
him  against  her  will — quite  as  if  he  had  heard  them 
declare  that  they  would  never  marry  a  dead  man  come 
to  life  again.  This  view  of  Marner's  personality  was 
not  without  another  ground  than  his  pale  face  and  un- 
exampled eyes ;  for  Jem  Rodney,  the  mole-catcher, 
averred  that,  one  evening  as  he  was* returning  home- 
ward, he  saw  Silas  Marner  leaning  against  a  stile  with 
a  heavy  bag  on  his  back,  instead  of  resting  the  bag 
on  the  stile  as  a  man  in  his  senses  would  have  done; 
and  that,  on  coming  up  to  him,  he  saw  that  Marner's 
eyes  were  set  like  a  dead  man's,  and  he  spoke  to  him, 
and  shook  him,  and  his  limbs  were  stiff,  and  his  hands 
clutched  the  bag  as  if  they'd  been  m&de  of  iron ;  but 
just  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  the  weaver  was 
dead,  he  came  all  right  again,  like^"  as  you  might  say, 
in  the  winking  of  aa  eye,  and  said  *^ood- night,"  and 
walked  oif.  All  this  Jem  swore  he  had  seen  more 
by  token,  that  it  was  the  very  dhy  he  had  been  mole- 
catching  on  Squire  Cass's  land,  dowp  by  the  old  saw- 
pit.  Some  said  Marner  must  have'  been  in  a  "  fit,"  a 
word  which  seemed  to  explain  things  otherwise  in- 
credible ;  but  the  argumentative  Mr.  Macey,  clerk  of 
tlie  parish,  shook  his  head,  and  askea  if  any  body  was 
ever  known  to  so  off  in  a  fit  and  not  fall  down.  A 
fit  was  a  stroke,  wasn't  it  ?  and  it  was  in  the  nature  of 
a  stroke  to  partly  take  away  the  use  of  a  man's  limbs 
and  throw  him  on  the  parish,  if  he'd  got  no  children 
to  look  to.  No,  no  ;  it  was  no  stroke  that  would  let  a 
man  stand  on  his  legs  like  a  horse  between  the  shafts, 
and  then  walk  off  as  soon  you  can  say  "Gee !"  But  there 


SILAS    MAKNEll.  11 

might  be  such  a  thing  as  a  man's  soul  being  loose 
from  his  body,  and  going  out  and  in,  like  a  bird  out 
of  its  nest  and  back;  and  that  was  how  folks  got  over- 
wise,  for  they  went  to  school  in  this  shell-less  state  to 
those  wWj  could  teach  them  more  than  their  neigh- 
bours could  learn  with  their  five  senses  and  the  par- 
son. And  where  did  Master  Marner  get  his  know- 
ledge of  herbs  from — and  charms,  too,  if  he  liked  to 
give  them  away  ?  Jem  Rodney's  story  was  no  mere 
than  what  might  have  been  expected  by  anybody  who 
•had  seen  how  Marner  had  cured  Sally  Oates.  and 
made  her  sleep  like  a  baby,  when  her  heart  had  been 
beating  enough  to  burst  her  body,  for  two  months  and 
more,  while  she  had  been  under  the  doctor's  care. — ' 
He  might  cure  more  folks  if  he  would ;  but  he  was 
worth  speaking  fair,  if  it  was  only  to  keep  him  from 
doing  you  a  mischief 

It  was  partly  to  this  vague  fear  that  Marner  was 
indebted  for  protecting  him  from  the  persecution  that 
his  singularities  might  have  drawn  upon  him,  but 
still  more  to  the  fact  that,  the  old,  linen-weaver  in 
the  neighbouring  parish  of  Tatley  being  dead,  his 
handicraft  made  him  a  highly  wtlcome  settler  to  the 
richer  housewives  of  the  district,  and  even  to  the  more 
provident  cottagers,  who  had  their  little  stock  of  yarn 
at  the  year's  end ;  and  their  sense  of  his  usefulness 
would  have  counteracted  any  repugnance  or  suspicion 
which  was  not  confirmed  by  a  deficiency  in  the  quali- 
ty or  the  tale  of  the  cloth  he  wove  for  them.  And 
the  years  had  rolled  on  without  producing  any  change 
in  the  impressfions  of  the  neighbours  concerning  Mar- 


12  SILAS    MAT^NER. 

ner,  except  the  change  from  novelty  to  habit.  At  the 
end  of  fifteen  years  «the  Ravcloe  men  said  just  the 
same  things  about  Silas  Marner  as  at  the  beginning: 
they  did  not  say  them  quite  so  often,  but  they  be- 
lieved them  much  more  strongly  when  theyj|did  say 
them.  There  was  •nly  one  important  addition  which 
the  years  had  brought :  it  was,  that  Master  Marner 
had  laid  by  a  fine  sight  of  money  somewhere,  and 
that  he  could  buy  up  "bigger  men* '  than  himself 

But  while  opinion  concerning  him  had  remained 
nearly  stationary,  and  his  daily  habits  had  presented  ' 
scarcely  any  visible  change,  Marner's  inward  life  had 
been  a  history  and  a  metamorphosis,  as  that  of  every 
fervid  nature  must  be  when  it  has  fled,  or  been  con- 
demned, to  solitude.  His  life,  before  he  came  to 
Raveloe,  had  been  filled  with  the  movement,  the  men- 
tal activity,  and  the  close  fellowship,  which,  in  that 
day  as  in  this,  marked  the  life  of  an  artisan  early  in- 
corporated in  a  narrow  rchgious  sect,  where  the  poor- 
est layman  has  the  chance  of  distinguishing  himself 
by  gifts  of  speech,  and  has,  at  the  very  least,  the 
weight  of  a  silent  voter  in  the  government  of  his  com- 
munity. Marner  wa*  highly  thought  of  in  that  Httlc 
hidden  world,  known  to  itself  as  the  church  assem- 
bling in  Lantern  Yard ;  he  was  believed  to  be  a  young 
man  of  exemplary  life  and  ardent  faith  ;  and  a  pecu- 
liar interest  had  been  centred  in  him  ever  since  he 
had  fallen,  at  b  prayer-meeting,  into  a  mysterious  rig- 
idity and  suspension  of  consciousness,  which,  lasting 
for  an  hour  or  more,  had  been  mistaken  for  death. — 
To  have  sought  a  medical  explanation  for   this  phe- 


SILAS    MARNER.  I3 

nonieiion  would  have  been  held,  by  Silas  himself,  as 
well  as  by  his  minister  and  fellow- members,  a  wilful 
self-exclusion    from  the    spiritual    significance   that 
might  he  therein.     Silas  was  evidently  a  brother  se- 
lected for  a  pecular  discipline,  anc^  though  the  effort 
I- to  mterpret  this  discipline  was  discouraged  by  the  ab- 
sence, on  his  part,  of  any  spiritual  vision  during  his 
outwards-trance,  yet  it  was  believed  by  himself  and 
others  that  its  effect  was  seen  in  an  accession  of  hght 
and  fervour.     A  less  truthful  man  than  he  might  have 
been  tempted  into  the  subsequent  creation  of  a  vision 
in  the  form  of  resurgent  memory;  a  less  sane  man 
might  have  believed  in  such  a  creation ;  but  Silas  was 
both  sane  and  honest,  though,  as  with  many  honest 
and  fervid  men,  cultiH-e  had  not  defined  any  channels 
for  his  sense  of  mystery,  and  so  it  spread  itself  over 
the  proper  pathway  of  inquiry  and  knowledge     He 
had  inhented  from  his  mother  some  acquaintance  with 
medicinal  herbs  and  their  preparation-a  little  store 
of  wisdom  which  she  had  imparted  to  him  as  a  solemn 
bequest-butof  late  years  he  had  doubts  about  the 
awfulness  of  applying  this  knowledge,  believing  that 
herbs  could  have  no  efficacy  without  prayer,  and  that 
prayer  might  suffice  without  herbs  ,-  so  that  the  inher- 
ited delight  he  had  in  wandering  in  the  fields  in  search 
of  foxglove  and  dandelion  and  coltsfoot,  began  to  wear 
to  him  the  character  of  a  temptation. 

Among  the  members  of  his  church  there  was  one 
young  man,  a  little  older  than  himself,  with  whom  he 
had  long  hved  in  such  close  friendship  that  it  was  the 
custom  of  their  Lantern  Yard  brethen  to  call  them 


14  SlLAfcJ    MARNER. 

David  and  Jonatlian.  The  real  name  of  the  friend 
was  William  Dane,  and  he,  too,  \yas  regarded  as  a  shin- 
ing instance  of  youthful  piety,  though  somewhat  given 
to  ovjer-severity  towards  weaker  brethren,  and  to  be  so 
dazzled  by  his  own  light  as  to  hold  himself  wiser  than 
his  teachers.  But  whatever  blemishes  others  mighty 
discern  in  William,  to  his  friend's  mind  he  was  fault- 
less ;  for  Marner  had  one  of  those  impressiole  self- 
doubting  natures  which,  at  an  inexperienced  age,  ad- 
mire imperativeness  and  lean  on  contradiction.  The 
expression  of  trusting  simplicity  in  Marner's  face, 
heightened  by  that  absence  of  special  observation,  that 
defenceless,  deer-like  gaze  which  belongs  to  large 
prominent  eyes,  was  strongly  contrasted  by  the  self- 
complacent  suppression  of  inwaid  triumph  that  lurk- 
ed in  the  narrow  slanting  eyes  and  compressed  lips  of 
William  Dane.  One  of  the  most  frequent  topics  of 
conversation  between  the  two  friends  was  Assurance 
of  salvation  :  Silas  confessed  that  he  could  never  ar- 
rive at  anything  higher  than  hope  mingled  with  fear, 
and  listened  with  longing  wonder  when.  William  de- 
clared that  he  had  possessed  unshaken  assurance  ever 
since,  in  the  period  of  his  conversion,  he  had  dreamed 
that  he  saw  the  words  "  calling  and  election  .«ure  " 
standing  by  themselves  on  a  white  page  in  the  open 
Bible.  Such  colloquies  have  occupied  many  a  pair  of 
pale-faced  weavers,  whose  unnurtured  souls  have  been 
like  young  winged  things,  fluttering  forsaken  in  the 
twiligrht. 

It  had  seemed  to  the  unsuspecting  Silas  that  the 
friendship  had  suffered  no  chill  even  from  his  forma- 


SILAS    MARNEK.  15 

tion  of  another  attachment  of  a  closer  kind.  For 
some  months  he  had  been  engaged  to  a  young  servant- 
woman,  waiting  only  for  a  little  increase  to  their  mu- 
tual savings  in  order  to  thoir  marriage;  and  it  was  a 
great  delight  to  him  that  Sarah  did  not  object  to  Wil- 
^  Ham's  occasional  presence  in  their  Sunday  interviews. 
It  was  at  this  point  of  their  history  that  Silas's  catalep- 
tic fit  occurred  during  prayer-meeting;  and  amidst 
the  A^arious  queries  and  expressions  of  interest  ad- 
dressed to^him  by  his  fellow-members,  William's  sug- 
gestion alone  jarred  witli  the  general  sympathy  to- 
wards a  brother  thus  singled  out  for  special  dealings. 
He  observed  that,  to  him,  this  trance  looked  more  like 
a  visitation  of  Satan  than  a  proof  of  divine  favour, 
and  exhorted  his  friend  to  see  that  he  hid  no  accursed 
thing  within  his  soul.  Silas,  feeling  bound  to  accept 
rebuke  and  admonition  as  a  brotherly  office,  felt  no 
resentment,  but  only  pain,  at  his  friend's  doubts  con- 
cerning him ;  and  to  this  was  soon  added  some  anxi- 
ety at  the  perception  that  Sarah's  manner  towards  him 
began  to  exhibit  a  strange  fluctuation  between  an  ef- 
fort at  ah  increased  manifestation  of  regard  and  in- 
voluntary signs,  of  shrinking  and  dislike.  He  asked 
her  if  she  wished  to  break  off  their  engagement;  but 
she  denied  this:  their  engagement  was  known  to  the 
church,  and  had  been  recognised  in  the  prayer-meet- 
ings; it  could  not  be  broken  off  without  strict  investi- 
gation, and  Sarah  could  render  no  reason  that  would 
be  sanctioned  by  the  feeling  of  the  community.  At 
this  time  the  senior  deacon  was  taken  dangerously  ill, 
and,  being  a  childless  widower,  he  was  tended  night 


16  6ILAS    MARKER. 

and  clay  by  sonie  of  the  younger  brethren  or  sisters. 
Silas  frequently  look  his  turn  in  the  night-watching 
with  William,  the  one  relieving  the  other  at  two  in 
the  morning.  The  old  man,  contrary  to  expectation, 
seemed  to  1m;  on  the  way  to  recovery,  when  one  night 
Silas,  sitting  up  by  his  bedside,  observed  that  his  \m\x~ 
ally  audible  breathing  had  ceased.  The  candle  was 
burning  low,  and  he  had  to  lift  it  to  see  the  patient's 
face  distinctly.  Examinntion  convinced  him  that  the 
deacon  was  dead-^had  been  dead  some  time,  for  the 
limbs  were  rigid.  Silas  asked  himself  if  he  had  been 
asleep,  and  looked  at  the  clock :  it  was  already  four 
in  the  morning.  How  wfts  it  that  William  liad  not 
coine?  In  much  anxiety  he  went  to  seek  for  help, 
and  soon  there  were  several  friends  assembled  in  the 
house,  the  minister  among  them,  wliile  Silas  went  away 
to  his  work,  wishing  he  could  have  met  William  to 
know  the  reason  of  his  non-appearance.  But  at  six 
o'clock,  as  he  was  thinking  of  going  to  seek  his  frie'nd, 
William  came,  and  with  him  the  minister.  They 
came  to  summon  him  to  Lantern  Yard,  to  meet  the 
church  members  there;  and  to  his  inquiry  concerning 
the  cause  of  the  summons  the  only  reply  was,  "You 
will  hear."  Nothing  further  was  said  until  Silas  was 
seated  in  the  vestry,  in  front  of  the  minister,  with  the 
eyes  of  those,  who  to  him  represented  God's  people 
fixed  solemnly  upon  him.  Then  the  minister,  taking 
out  a  pocket-knife,  showed  it  to  Silas,  and  asked  him 
if  he  knew  where  he  had  left  that  knife?  Silas  said, 
he  did  not  know  that  he  had  left  it  anywhere  out  of 
his, own  pocket — but  he  was  trembling  at  this  strange 


SILAS    MARNEK.  fjjf  17 

iLiicrrogatiou.     lie  was  then  exhorted  not  to  hide  his 

sin,  but  to  confess  and  repent.     The  knife  had  been 

found  in  tlie  bureau  by  the  departed  deacon's  bedside 

— found  in  the  place  where  the  little  bag  of  church 

money  had  lain,  whicli  the  minister  himself  had  seen 

the  day  before.     Some  hand  had  removed  that  bag; 

and  whose  hand  could  it  be,  if  not  that  of  the  man  to 

whom  the  knife  belonged?     For  some  time  Silas  was 

mute  with  astonishment:  then  he  said,  "God  will  clear 

me:  I  know  nothing  about  the  knife  being  there,  or 

the  money  being  gone.     Search  me  and  my  dwelling: 

you  will  find  nothing  but  three  pound  five  of  my  own 

savings,  which  William  Dane  knows  I  have  had  these 

six  months."     At  this  William  groaned,  but  the  jnin- 

ister  said,  "  The  proof  is  heavy  against  you,  brother 

Marner.     The  money  was  taken  in  the  night  last  past, 

and  no  man  was  with  our  departed  brother  but  you, 

for  WilHam  Dane  declares  to  us  that  he  was  hindered 

by  sudden  sickness  from  going  to  take  his  place  as 

usual,  and  you  yourself  said  that  he  had  not  come; 

and,  moreover,  you  neglected  the  dead  body." 

"I  must  have  slept,"  said  Silas.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
he  added,  "Or  I  must  have  had  another  visitation  like 
that  which  you  have  all  seen' me  under,  so  that  the 
thief  must  have  come  and  gone  while  I  was  not  in  the 
body,  but  out  of  the  body.  But.  I  say  again,  search 
me  and  my  dwelling,  for  I  have  been  nowhere  else." 
The  search  was  made,  and  it  ended — in  William 
Dane's  finding  the  well-known  bag,  empty,  tucked  be- 
hind the  chest  of  drawers  in  Silas's  chamber!  On  this 
William  exhorted  his  friend  to  confess,  and  not  to  hide 


IS  .    ^^  SILAS    MARNER. 

his  sin  any  longer.  Silas  turned  a  look  of  keen  ;e- 
proacli  on  him,  and  said,  "William,  for  nine  years- that 
we  have  gone  in  and  ont  torcether,  have  you  ever 
known  mc  to  tell  a  lie?     But  God  will  clear  me." 

"Brother,"  said  William,  "how  do  I  khow  what  you 
may  have  done  in  the  secret  chambers  of  your  heart; 
to  give  Satan  an  advantage  over  you  ?"' 

Silas  was  still  looking  at  Ins  friend.  Suddenly  a 
deep  flush  came  over  his  face  and  he  .was  about  to 
speak  impetuously,  when  he  seemed  checked  again  l)y 
some  inward  shock,  that  sent  the  flush  back  and  made 
him  tremble.  But  at  last  he  spoke  feebly,  looking  at 
William. 

'^I  remember  now — the  knife  w'as'nt  in  my  pocket.'* 

William  said,  "I  know  nothing  of  what  you  mean." 
The  other  persons  present,  however,  began  to  inquire 
where  Sila,s  meant  to  say  that  the  knife  was,  bnt  he 
would  give  no  furtlier  explanation:  he  only  said,  "I 
am  sore  stricken;  I  can  say  nothing.  God  will  clear 
me." 

On  their  return  to  the  vestry  there  was  further  de- 
liberation. Any  resort  to  legal  measures  for  ascertain- 
ing the  culprit  was  contrary  to  the  principles  of  the 
Church:  prosecution  was  held  by  them  to  b(3  forbid- 
den to  Christians,  even  if  it  had  been  a  case  in  which 
there  was  no  scandal  to  the  community.  But  they 
were  bound  to  take  other  measures  for  fmding  out  the 
truth,  and  they  resolved  on  praying  and  drawing  lots. 
This  resolution  can  be  a  ground  of  surprise  only  to 
those  who  are  unacquainted  with  that  obscure  relig- 
ious life  which  has  gone  on  in  the  alleys  of  our  tov/ris. 


SILAS    MARXER.  19 

Silas  knelt  with  Iiis  brethren,  relying  on  liis  own  inno- 
cence being  certified  by  immediate  divine  interference, 
but  feelino;  that  there  vf&s  sorrow  and  mourning  be- 
hind  for  him  even  then — that  his  trust-  in  man  had 
l)een  cruelly  bruised.  The  lots  declared  that  Silas 
Marncr  loas  guilty.  He  was  solemnly  suspended  from 
church-membership,  and  called  upon  to  render  up  the 
stolen  money:  only  on  confession,  as  the  sign  of  re- 
pentance, could  he  be  received  once  more  within  the 
fold  of  the  church.  ?vlarner  listened  in  silence.  At 
last,  when  every  one  rose  to  depart,  he  went  towards 
William  Dane  and  said,  in  a  voice  shaken  by  agita- 
tion— 

"The  last  time  I  remember  using  my  knife,  was 
when  I  took  it  out  to  cut  a  strap  for  you.  I  don't  re- 
member putting  it  in  my  pocket  again.  You  stole  the 
money,  and  you  have  woven  a  plot  to  lay  tlie  sin  at 
my  door.  But  you  may  prosper,  for  all  that:  there 
is  no  just  God  that  governs  the  earth  righteously,  but 
a  God  of  lies,  that  bears  witness  against  the  inno- 
cent." 

There  was  a  general  -shudder  at  this  blasphemy. 

William  said  meekly,  "I  leave  our  brethren  to 
judge  whether  this  is  the  voice  of  Satan  or  not.  I 
can  do  nothing  but  pray  for  you,  Silas." 

Poor  Marner  went  out  with  that  despair  in  his  soul 
— that  shaken  trust  in  God  and  man,  which  is  little 
short  of  madness  to  a  loving  nature.  In  the  bitterness 
of  his  wounded  spirit,  hc^  said  to  himself,  "  SJie  will 
cast  me  off  too."  And  he  reflected  that,  if  she  did  not 
believe  the  testimony  against  him,  her  whole  faith 


20  SILAS    MARNEK. 

must  be  upset,  as  his  was.  To  people  accustomed  to 
reason  about  the  forms  in  which  their  rehgious  feeling 
has  incorporated  itself,  it  is  difficult  to  enter  into  that 
simple,  uataught  state  of  mind  in  which  the  forn;  and 
the  feeling  have  never  been  severed  by  an  act  of  re- 
flection. We  are  apt  to  think  it  inevitable  that  a  man 
in  Marner's  position-  should  have  begun  to  question 
the  validity  of  an  appeal  to  the  divine  judgment  by 
drav/ino:  lots;  but  to  him  this  would  have  been  an  ef- 
fort  of  independent  thought  such  as  he  had  nevsr 
known;  and  he  must  have  made  the  effort  at  a  mo- 
ment when  all  his  energies  were  turned  into  the  an- 
guish of  disappointed  faith.  If  there  is  an  angel  who 
records  the  sorrows  of  men  as  well  as  their  sins,  he 
knows  how  many  and  deep  are  the  sorrows  that  spring 
from  false  ideas  for  which  no  man  is  culpable. 

Marner  went  home,  and  for  a  whole  day  sat  alone, 
stunned  by  despair,  without  any  impulse  to  go  to 
Sarah  and  attempt  to  win  her  belief  in  his  innocence. 
The  second  day  he  took  refugd  from  benumbing  un- 
belief by  getting  into  his  loom  and  working" away  as 
usual;  and  before  many  hours  were  past,  the  minister 
and  one  of  the  deacons  came  to  him  with  the  message 
from  Sarah,  that  she  held  her  engagement  to  him  at 
an  end.  Silas  received  the  message  mutely,  and  then 
turned  away  from  the  messengers  to  work  at  his  loom 
again.  In  little  more  than  a  month  from  that  time, 
Sarah  was  married  to  William  Dane;  and  not  long 
afterwards  it  was  known  to  the  brethren  in  Lantern 
Yard  that  Silas  Marner  had  departed  from  the  town. 


SILAS    MAKNEK.  21 


CHAPTER  II. 

Even  people  whose  lives  have  been  made  various 
by  learning,  sometimes  find  it  liard  to  keep  a  iUst  hold 
on  their  habitual  views  of  life,  on  their  faitli  in  the  In- 
visible— luiy,  on  the  sense  that  their  past  joys  and 
sorrows  are  a  real  experience,  when  they  are  sudden- 
ly transported  to  a  new  Jand,  where  the  beings  around 
them  know  nothing  of  their  history,  and  share  none 
of  their  ideas — where  their  mother  earth  shows  an- 
other lap,  and  human  life  has  other  forms  than  those 
on  which  their  souls  have  been  nourished.  Minds 
that  have  been  unhinged  from  their  old  faith  and  love, 
have  perhaps  sought  this  Lethean  influence  of  exile, 
in  which  the  past  becomes  dreamy  because  its  symbols 
have  all  vanished,  and  the  present  too  is  dreamy  be- 
cause it  is  linked  with  no  memories.  But  even  their 
experience  may  hardly  enable  them  thoroughly  to  im- 
agine what  was  the  effect  on  a  simple  weaver  like 
Silas  Marner,  when  he  left  his  own  country  and  people 
and  came  to  settle  in  Raveloe.  Nothing  could  be  more 
unlike  his  native  town,  set  within  sight  of  the  wide- 
spread hill-sides,  than  this  low,  wooded  re-^ion,  where 
he  felt  hidden  even  from  the  heavens  by  the  screening 
trees  and  hedgerows.  There  was  nothing  here,  when 
he  rose  in  the  deep  morning  quiet  and  looked  out  on 
the  dewy  bramlilcs  and  rank  tuft<d  grass,  that  seemed 
to  have  any  relation  with  that  life  centering  in  Lan- 


22  SILAS    MAENEK.  . 

tern  Yard,  which  had  once  been  to  hirn  the  altar-place 
of  high  dispensations.     The  whitewashed  walls;  the 
little  pews  where  well-known  figures  entered  with  a 
subdued  rusthng,  and  where  first  one-well-known  voice 
and  then  another,  pitched  in  a  peculiar  key  of  petition, 
uttered  phrases  at  once  occult  and  familiar,  like  the 
amulet  worn  on  the  heart;  the  pulpit  where  the  min- 
ister dehvered  unquestioned  doctrine,  and  swayed  to 
and  fro,  and  handled  the  book  in  a  long-accustomed 
manner;  the  very  pauses  betw^cen  the  couplets  of  the 
hymn,  as  it  was  given  out,  and  the  recurrent  swell  of 
voices  in  song:  these  things  had  been  the  channel  of 
divine  influences  to  Marner — they  were  the  fostering 
home  of  his  religious  emotions — they  were  Christian- 
ity and  God's  kingdom  upon  earth.     A  weaver  who 
finds  hard  words  in  his  hymn-book  knows  nothing  of 
abstractions;  as   the  little  child  knows  nothing  of 
parental  love,  but  only  knows  one   face  and  one  lap 
towards  which  it  stretches  its  arms  for  refuge  and 
nurture. 

And  what  could  be  more  unlike  that  Lantern  Yard 
world  than  the  world  in  Raveloe  ? — orchards  looking 
lazy  with  neglected  plenty;  the  large  church  in  the 
wide  churchyard,  which  men  gazed  at  lounging  at 
their  own  doors  in  service-time;  the  purple-faced 
farmers  jogging  along  the  lanes  or  turning  in  at  the 
Rainbow ;  homesteads,  where  men  supped  heavily  and 
slept  in  the  light  of  the  evening  hearth,  and  where 
women  seemed  to  be  laying  up  a  stock  of  linen  for 
ihe  life  to  come.  There  were  no  lips  in  Raveloe  from 
which  a  word  could  fall  that  would  titir  Silas  Mar- 


S-ILAS    MARNER.  23 

iier's  benumbed  foith  to  a  sense  of  pain.  In  thfe  early 
ago§  of  the  world,  we  know,  it  Vvas  believed  that  each 
territory  was  inhabited  and  ruled  by  its  own  divini- 
ties, so  that  a  man  could  cross  the  bordering  heights 
and  1)6  out  of  the  reach  of  his  native  gods,  whose  pres- 
ence was  confined  to  the  streams  and  the  groves  and 
the  hills  among  which  he  had  lived  from  his  birth- 
And  pogr  Silas  was  vaguel}'^  conscious  of  something 
not  unlike  the  feeling  of  primitive  men,  Avhen  they 
lied  thus,  in  fear  or  in  suUenness,  from  the  face  of  an 
unpropitious  deity.  It  seemed  to  him  that  tfie  Pov»^er 
in  which  he  had  vainly  trusted  among  the  streets  and 
in  the  prayer-meetings,  was  very  far  away  from  this 
land  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge,  where  men  lived 
in  careless  abundance,  knowing  and  needing^nothing 
of  that  trust,  which,  for  him,  had  been  turned  to  bit- 
terness. The  httle  light  he  possessed  spread  its  beams 
so  narrowly,  that  frustrated  belief  was  %  curtain  broad 
enough  to  create  for  him  the  blackness  of  night. 

His  first  movement  after  the  shock  had  been  to 
work  in  his  loom;  and^he  went  on  with  this  unremit- 
tingly, never  asking  himself  why,  now  he  was  come  to 
Raveloe,  he  worked  far  on  into  the  night  to  finish  the 
tale  of  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  sooner  than  she  ex- 
pected— without  contemplating  beforehand  the  money 
she  would  put  into  his  hand  for  the  work.  He  seem- 
ed to  weave,  lU^e  the  spider,  from  pure  impulse,  with- 
out reflection.  Every  man's  work,  pursued  steadily, 
tends  in  this  way  to  become  an  end  in  itself,  and  so  to 
bridge,  over  the  loveless  chasms  of  his  life.  Silas's 
hand  satisfied  itself  with  throwing  the  shuttle,  and  his 


24  SILAS    MAKNEIL 

eye  with  seeing  the  little  squares  in  the  cloth  complete, 
themselves  under  his  effort.  Then  there  were  the 
calls  of  hunger;  and  Silas,  in  his  solitude,  had  to  pro- 
vide his  own  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  to  fetch 
his  own  water  from  tlie  well,  and  put  his  own  kettle 
on  the  fire;  imd  all  these  immediute  promptings  help- 
ed, along  with  the  weaving,  to  reduce  his  life  to  the 
unquestioning  activity  of  a  spinning  insect.  He  hated 
the  thought;  of  the  past;  there  was  nothing  that  called 
out  liis  love  and  fellowship  toward  the  strangers  he 
had  come  amongst;  and  the  future  was  all  dark 
for-  there  was  no  Unseen  Love  that  cared  for  him. 
Thought  was  arrested  by  utter  bewilderment,  now  its 
old  narrow  pathway  was  closed,  and  affection  seemed 
to  have  died  under  the  bruise  that  had  fallen  on  its 
keenest  nerves. 

But  at  last  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  was  finished, 
and  Silas  was  paid  in  gold.  His  earnings  in  his  na- 
tive town,  where  he  worked  for  a  wholesale  dealer, 
had  been  after  a  lower  rate;  he  had  been  paid  week- 
ly, and  of  his  weekly  earnings  a  large  proportion  had 
gone  to  objects  of  piety  and  charity.  Now,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  had  five  bright  guineas  put- 
into  his  hand;  no  man  expected  a  share  of  them,  and 
he  loved  no  man  that  he  should  offer  him  a  share. 
But  what  were  the  guineas  to  him,  who  saw  no  vista 
beyond  countless  days  of  weaving?  It  was  needless 
for  him  to  ask  that,  for  it  was  pleasant  to  him  to  feel 
them  in  his  palm,  and  look  at  their  bright  faces,  which 
Were  all  his  own:  it  was  another  element  of  life,  like 
the  weaving  and  the  satisfaction  of  hunger,  subsisting 


SILAS    MAHNEK.  U5 

(^[uitc  aloof  from  the  life  of  belief  and  love  from  which 
he  had  been  cut  off.  The  weaver's  hand  had  known 
the  touch  of  hard-won  money  even  before  the  palm 
had  grown  to  its  full  breadth;  for  twenty  years,  mys- 
terious money  had  stood  to  him  as  the  symbol  of 
earthly  good  and  the  immediate  object  of  toil.  He 
had  seemed  to  love  it  little  in  the  years  when  every 
penny  had  its  purpose  for  him;  for  he  loved  the  ]mr- 
pose  then.  But  now,  when  all  purpose  was  gone,  that 
habit  of  looking  towards  the  money  and  grasping  it 
with  a  sense  of  fulfilled  effort  made  a  loam  that  was 
deep  enough  for  the  seeds  of  desire;  and  as  Silas 
walked  homeward  across  tlie  fields  in  the  twihght,  he 
drew  out  the  money,  and  thought  it  was  brighter  in 
the  gathering  gloom. 

About  this  time  an  incident  happened  which  seem- 
ed to  open  a  possibihty  of  some  fellowship  with  his 
neighbors.  One  ,day,  taking  a  pair  of  shoes  to  be 
mended,  he  saw  the  cobbler's  wife  seated  by  the  fire, 
suffering  from  the  terrible  symptoms  of  heart-disease 
and  dropsy,  which  he  had  witnessed  as  the  precursors 
of  his  mother's  death.  He  felt  a  rush  of  pity  at  the 
mingled  sight  and  remembrance,  and,  recalling  the  re- 
lief his  mother  had  found  from  a  simple  preparation 
of  foxglove,  he  promised  Sally  Gates  to  bring  her 
something  that  would  Gftse  her,  since  the  doctor  did 
her  no  good,  In  this  office  of  charity,  Silas  felt,  lor 
the  first  time  since  he  ha^  come  to  Eaveloe,  a  sense 
of  unity  between  his  past  and  present  life,  which 
might  have  been  the  beginning  of  his  rescue  from  the 
irisect-Ukfj  existence  into  which  his  nature  had  shrunk. 


26  SILAS    MAENEK. 

But  Sallj  Gates'  disease  had  raised  her  ifito  a  peuscu- 
age  of  much  interest  aad  importance  among  the  neigh- 
bors, and  the  fact  of  her  having  found  relief  from 
drinking  Silas  Marner's  "stuff""  became  a  matter  of 
general  discourse.  When  Doctor  Kimble  gave  phy- 
sic, it  was  natural  that  it  should  have  an  effect;  but 
when  a  weaver,  who  came  from  nobody  knew  where, 
worked  wonders  with  a  bottle  of  brown  waters,  the 
occult  character  of  the  process  w^as  evident.  Such  a 
sort  of  thing  had  not  been  known  since  the  Wise 
Woman  at  Tarley  died;  and  she  had  charms  as  well 
j^g  "stuff:"  everybody  went  to  her  when  their  chil- 
dren had  fits.  Silas  Marner  must  be  a  person  of  the 
same  sort,  for  how  did  he  know  w^hat  would  bring 
back  Sally  Gates'  breath,  if  he  did'nt  know  a  fine 
sight  more  than  that?  The  Wise  Woman  had  words 
that  she  muttered  to  herself,  so  that  you  could'nt  hear 
what  they  were;  and  if  she  tied  a  bit  of  red  thread 
round  the  child's  toe  the  while,  it  would  keep  off  the 
water  in  the  head.  There  were  women  in  Eaveloe, 
at  that  present  time,  who  had  worn  one  of  the  Wise 
Woman's  little  bags  round  their  necks,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, had  never. had  an  idiot  child,  as  Ann  Coulter 
had.  Silas  Marner  could  very  likely  do  as  much,  and 
more ;  and  now  it  was  all  clear  how  he  should  have 
come  from  unknown  parts,  and  be  so  "comical-look- 
ing." But  Sally  Gates  must  mind  and  not  tell  the 
doctor,  for  he  would  be  sure  to  set  his  face  against 
Marner:  he  was  always  angry  about  the  Wise  Wo- 
man, and  used  to  threaten  those  who  went  to  her  that 
they  should  have  none  'of  his  help  any.  more. 


SILAS    MAliNER.  •  27" 

Silas  now  found  himself  and  his  cottage  suddenly 
l)eset  by  motliers  who  wanted  him  to  charm  away  the 
hooping-cough,  or  bring  back  the  milk,  and  by  men 
who  wanted  stuff  against  rheumatics  or  the  knots  iu 
the  hands;  and,  to  secure  themselves  against  a  refu- 
sal, the  applicants  brought  their  silver  in  their  palms. 
Silas  might  have  driven  a  profitable  trade  in  charms 
as  well  as  in  his  small  list  of  drugs;  but  money  on 
this  condition  was  no  temptation  t'6  him:  he  had 
never  known  an  impulse  towards  falsity,  and  he  drove 
one  after  another  tiway  with  growing  irritation,  for 
the  news  of  him  as  a  wise  man  had  spread  even  to 
Tarley,  and  it  was  long  before  people  ceased  to  take 
long  walks  for  the  sake  of  asking  his  aid.  But  the 
hope  in  his  wisdom  was  at  length  changed  into  dread, 
for  no  one  believed  him  when  he  saidvhe  knew  no 
charms  and  could  work  no  cures,  and  every  man  and 
woman  who  had  an  accident  or  a  n^v  attack  after  ap- 
plying to  him,  set  the  misfortune  down  to  Master 
Marner's  ill-will  and  irritated  glances.  Thus  it  came 
to  pass  that  his  movement  of  pity  towards  Sally  Gates, 
which  had  given  him  a  transient  sense  of  brotherhood, 
heightened  the  repulsion  between  him  and  his  neigh- 
bours, and  made  his  isolation  more  complete. 

Gradually  the  guineas,  the  ci*owns,  and  the  half- 
crowns,  grew  to  a  heap,  and  Marner  drew  less  and  less 
for  his  own  wants,  trying  to  solve  the  problem  of 
keeping  himscli'  strong  enough  to  work  sixteen  hourt! 
a-day  on  as  small  an  outlay'  as  possible.  Have  not 
men,  shut  up  in  solitary  imprisonment,  found  an  in- 
terest in  marking  the  njoments  by  straight  stroke-s  of 


28  '  SILAS    MARNEK. 

a  certain  length  on  the  wall,  until  the  growth  of  the 
siim  of  straight  strokes,  arranged  in  triangles,  has  be- 
come a  mastering  purpose  1!  Do  w^e  not  wnle  away 
moments  of  inanity  or  fatigued  waiting  by  repeating 
some  trivial  movement  or  sound,  until  the  repetition 
has  bred  a  want,  which  is  incipient  habit  1  That  will 
help  us  to  understand  how  the  love  of  accumulating 
money  grows  an  absorbing  passion  in  men  whose  im- 
aginations, even  m  the  very  beginning  of  their  hoard, 
showed  them  no  purpose  beyond  it.  Maruer  wanted 
the  heaps  of  ten  to  grow  into  a  square,  and  then  into 
a  larger  square;  and  every  added  guinea,  wliile  it 
was  itself  a' satisfaction,  bred  a  new  desire.  In  this 
strange  world,  made  a  hopeless  riddle  to  him,  he 
miffht,  if  he  had  had  a  less  intense  nature,  have  sat 
weaving,  weaving — looking  towards  the  end  of  his 
pattern,  or  towards  the  end  of  his  web,  till  he  forgot 
the  riddle,  and  everything  else  but  his  immediate  sen- 
sations ;  but  the  money  had  come  to  mark  off  his 
weaving  into  periods,  and  the  money  not  only  grew, 
but  it  remained  with  him.  He  began  to  think  it  was 
conscious  of  him,  as  his  loom  was,  and  he  would  on 
no  account  have  exchanged  those  coins,  which  had  be- 
come his  familiars,  for  other  coins  with  unknown  fa- . 
ces.  He  handled  them,  he  counted  them,  till  their 
form  and  colour  were  like  the  satisfaction  of  a  thirst 
to  him;  but  it  was  only  in  the  night,  when  his  work 
was  done,  that  he  drew  them  out  to  enjoy  their  com- 
panionship. He  had  taken  up  some  bricks  in  his 
iioor  underneath  his  loom,  and  here  he  had  made  a 
IioIq  in  which  he  set  the  iron  pot  that  contained  his 


.    SILAS    MARNEK.  2!) 

guineas  an'd  silver  coins,  covcriDgthc  bricks  witli  sand 
whenever  lie  replaced  them.  Not  that  the  idea  of 
being  robbed  presented  itself  often  or  strongly  to  his 
inind  ;  hoarding  was  common  in  country  districts  in 
those  days;  there  were  eld  labourers  ia  the  parish  of 
Raveloc.who  were  known  to  have  their  savings  by 
them,  probably  inside  their  flock-beds ;  but  their  rus- 
tic neiglibours,  though  not  all  of  them  as  honest  as 
their  ancestors  in  the  days  of  King  Alfred,  had  not 
imaginations  bold  enough  to  lay  a  plan  of  burglary. 
How  could  they  have  spent  the  money  in  their  own 
village  without  betraying  themselves?  They  would 
be  obliged  to  "run  away" — a  course  as  dark  and  dubi- 
ous as  a  balloon  journey. 

So,  year  after  year,  Silas  Marner  had  lived  in  this 
solitude,  his  guineas  rising  in  the  iron  pot,  and  his  lifo 
narrowing  and  hardening  itself  more  and  more  into  a 
mere  pulsation  of  desire  and  satisfaction  that  had  no 
relation  to  any  other  being.  His  life  had  reduced  it- 
self to  the  mere  functions  of  weaving  and  hoarding, 
without  any  contemplq^ion  of  an  end  towards  which 
the  functions  tended.  The  same  sort  of  process  has 
perliaps  been  undergone  by  wiser  men,  when  they 
have  been  cut  off  from  laith  and  love  —  only,  instead 
of  a  loom  and  a  heap  of  guineas,  they  have,  had  some 
erudite  research,  some  ingenious  project,  or  some  well- 
knit  theory.  Strangely  Marner's  face  and  figure 
shrank  and  bent  themselves  into  a  constant  mechani- 
cal relation  to  the  objects  of  his  life,  so  that  he  pro- 
duced, the  same  sort  of  impression  as  a  handle  or  a 
crooked  tube,  which  has  no  meaning  standing  apart. 


.30  STLA.S    MARKER..' 

The  |,iuuiiaeiit  cjes  thrit  used  to  look  triisiing  and 
dreamy,  now  looked  as  if  they  had  been  made  to  see 
only  one  kind  of  thing  that  was  Very  small,  like  tiny 
grain,  for  which  they  hunted  everywhere;  and  he  was 
so  withered  and  yellow,  thilt,  though  he  was  not  rot 
forty,  the  children  always  called"  him  "Old  Master 
Marner." 

Yet  even  in  this  stage  of  withering  a  little  incident 
happened,  which  showed  that  the  sap  of  affection  was 
not  all  gone.  It  was  one  of  his  daily  tasks  to  fetch 
his  water  from  a  well  a  couple  of  fields  oiT,  and  for 
this  purpose,  ever  since  he  came  to  Raveloe,  he  had 
had  a  brown  earthenware  pot,  which  he  held  as  Ijiis 
most  precious  utensil,  among  the  very  few  conven- 
iences he  had  granted  himself.  It  had  been  his  com- 
panion for  twelve  years,  always  standing  on  the  same 
spot,  always  lending  its  liandle  to  him  in  the  early 
morning,  so  that  its  form  had  an  expression  for  him 
of  wiUing  helpfulness,  and  the  impress  of  its  handle 
on  his  palm  gave  a  satisfaction  mingled  with  that  of 
having  the  fresh  clear  water.  One  day  as  he  was  re- 
turning, from  the  well,  he  stumbled  against"  the  step 
of  the  stile,  and  his  brown  pot,  falling  with  force 
against  the  stones  that  overarched  the  ditch  below 
him,  was  broken  in  three  pieces.  Silas  picked  up  the 
pieces  and  carried  them  home  with  grief  in  his  heart. 
The  brown  pot  could  never  be  of  use  to  him  any 
more,  but  he  stuck  the  bits  together  and  propped  the 
niin  in  its  old  place  for  a  memorial. 

This  ^s  the  history  of  Silas  Marner  until  the  fif- 
teenth year  after  he  came  to  Raveloe.     The  Hvelong 


^  SILAS    MARNEK.  :ji 

dny  he  sat  in  his  loom,  his  ear  filled  with  its  monoto- 
ny,  Iii^  eyes  bent  close  down  on  the  sIqw  growth  of 
sameness  in  the  brownish  web,  his  muscles  raovinjr 
with  such  cv.cn  rv^petition  that  their  pause  seemed  al- 
most as  much  a  constraint  as  the  holding  of  his  breath. 
But  at  night  came  his  revelry:  at  night  he  closed. his 
shutters,  and  made  fast  his  doors,  and  drew  out  his 
gold.  Long  ago  the  heap  of  coins  had  become  too 
large  for  tlie  iron  pot  to  ho]d  them,  and  he  had  made 
for  them  two  thick  leather  bags,  which  wasted  no 
room  in  their  resting-place,  but  lent  themselves  flexi- 
bly to  every  corner.  How  the  guineas  shone  as  they 
came  pouring  out  of  the  dark  leather  mouths!  The 
silver  bore  no  large  proportion  in  amount  to  the  gold, 
because  the  long  pieces  of  linen  which  formed  his 
chief  work  were  always  partly  paid  for  in  ^gold,  and 
"out  of  the  silver  he  supplied  his  own  bodily  wants, 
choosing  always  the  shillings  and  sixpences  to  spend 
in  this  way.  He  loved  the  guineas  lirst,  but  ho  w^ould 
not  change  the  silver — the  crowns  and  half-crowns 
that  were  his  own  earnings,  begotten  by  his  labour; 
he  loved  them  {ill.  He  spread  them  out  in  heaps  and 
bathed  his  hands  in  them;  then  he  .counted  them  and 
set  them  up  in  regular  piles,  and  felt  their  rounded 
outline  between  his  thumb  and  fingers,  and  thought 
fondly  of  the  guineas  that  wen3  ordy  half-earned  by 
the  work  in  his  loom,  as  if  thi.'v  liad  \been  unborn 
children — thought  of  the  guineas  that  were  coming 
slowly  through  the  coming  years,  through  all  his  life, 
which  spread  far  away  beforojiim,  the  end  quite  hid- 
den by  countless  days  of  weaving.     No  wonder  his 


32  SILAS    MARNER. 

thoughts  were  still  with  his  loom  and  his  money  when 
lie  made  his  journeys  through  the  fields  and  the  lanes 
to  fetch  and  carr}'  home  his  work,  so  that  Ins  steps 
never  wandered  to  the  hedge-banks  and  the  lane-side 
in  search  of  the  once  familiar  herbs :  these  too  belong- 
ed to,  the  past,  from  which  liis  life  had  shrunk  away,' 
like  a  rivulet  that  Jias  sunk  far  down  from  the  grassy 
fringe  of  its  old  breadth  into  a  little  shivering  thread, 
that  cut;>  a  groove  for  itself  in  the  barren  sand. 

But  about  the  Christmas  of  that  fifteenth'  year,  a 
second  great  change  came  over  Marner  s  life,  and  his 
history  became  blent  in  a  singular  manner  with  the 
life  of  his  neighbours. 


SiLAy    M^VliNEK. 


CHAPTER  UI. 

The  greatest  man  in  Raveloo  was  S(|idre  Cass,  who 
lived  in  tlie  large  red  house,  with  the  handsome  flight 
of  stone  steps  in  front  and  the  high  stables  behind  it, 
yearly  opposite  the  church.  He  was  only  one  among 
several  landed  parishioners,  but  he  alone  was  honoured 
with  the  title  of  squire ;  for  though  Mr.  Osgood's  fam- 
ily was.  also  understood  to  be  of  timeless  origin — the 
Raveloe,  imagination  having  never  ventured  back  to 
that' fearful  blank  when  there  were  no  Osgood's — still, 
he  merely  ^owued  the  farm  he  occupied;  whereas 
Squire  Cass  had  a  tenant  or  two,  who  complained  of 
the  game,  to  him  quite  as  if  he  had  been  a  lord. 

It  was  still  that  glorious  war-time  which  was  felt  to' 
be  a  peculiar  favour  of  Providence  towards  the  land- 
ed interest,  and  the  fall  of  prices  had  not  yet  come  to 
carry  the  race  of  small,  squires  and  yeomen  down  that 
road  to  ruin  for  which  extravagant  habits  and  bad 
husbandry  were  plentifully  anointing  their  wheels.  I 
am.  speaking  now  in  rfelation  to  Raveloe  and  the  par- 
ishes that  resembled  if;  for  our  old-fashioned  country 
life  had  majay  different  aspects,  as  all  life  must  have 
when  it  is  spread  over  a  various  surface,  and  breath- 
ed on  variously  by  multitudinous  currents,"  from  ■  the 
winds  of  heaven  to  the  thoughts  of  men,  which  are  for 
ever  moving  and  crossing  each  other, -with  incalcula- 


^4  SILAS    MARNEli. 

blc  results.  Raveloe  lay  low  among  the  bushy  trees 
and  the  rutted  lanes,  aloof  from  the  .currents  of  indus- 
trial, energy  and  Puritan  earnestness:  the  rich  ate  and 
drank  freely,  and  accepted  gout  and  apoplexy  as 
things  that  ran  mysteriously  in  respectable  ili^nilies,. 
and  the  poor  thought  that  the' rich  were  entirely  in 
the  right  of  it  to  lead  a  joljy  life;  besides,  their  feast- 
ings  caused  a  multiplication  of  orts,  which  were  tbe 
heir-looms  of  the  poor.  Betty  Jay  scented  the  boil- 
ing of  Squire  Cass's  hams,  but  her  longing  was  nrrest- 
ed  by  the  unctuous  liquor  in  \vhich  they  were  boiled  j 
and  when  the  seasons  brought  round  the  great  merry- 
niakings,  they  were  regarded,  on  all'  hands  as-  a  fine 
thing  for  the  poor.  '  For  the  Raveloe  feasts  were  like . 
the  rounds  of  beef  and  the  barrels  of  ale — they  were 
on  a  large  scale,  and  lasted  a  good  while,  especially  in 
the  winter-time.  When  ladies  had  packed  up  their 
best  gowns  and  top-knots  in  bandboxes,'^and  had  in- 
curred the  risk  of  fording  streams  on  pillions  witli  the 
precious  burden  in  rainy  or  snowy  weather,  when 
there  was  no  knowing  liow  high  the  water  would  rise, 
it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  they  looked  forward  to 
a  brief  pleasure.  On  this  ground  it  was  always  con- 
trived in  the  dark  seasons,  when  there  was  little  work 
to  be  done  and  the  hours  were  long,  that  several  neigh- 
bours should  keep  open  house  in  succession.  When 
Squire  Cass's  standing  dishes  diminished  in  plenty  and 
freshness,  his  guests  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  a 
little  higher  up  the  village  to  Mr.  Osgood's,  at  the  Or- 
chards, and  they  found  hams  and  chines  uncut,  pork- 
pies  with  the  scent  of  the  fire  in  them,  spun  butter  in 


dl  its  freshness — ever}'thingi|>iff  fact,  tbat  appetites  at 
lcisur6  could  desire,  Iq  perhaps  greater  perfection, 
though  not  in  greater  abuntLince,  than  .  at  Squire 
Cass's.      ^  ,  ■       ' 

For  the  Squire's  wife  had  died  long  ago,  and  the 
lied  House  was  without  that  presence  of  the  wife  and 
mother  which  is  the  fountain  ot  wholesome  love  and 
fear  in  parlour  and  IvitcheJi ;  and  this  helped  to  ac- 
count not  only  for  there  being  more  profusion  than 
finished  excellence  in  the  holiday  provisions,  but  also 
for  tile  frequency  ^'ith  which  the  proud  Squire  conde- 
scended to  preside  in  the  parlor  of  the  Rainbow  rath- 
er than  under  the  shadow  of  his  ovi^n  dark  wainscot; 
perhaps,  also,  for  the  fact  that  his  sons  had  turned  out 
rather  ill.  Raveloe  was  not  a  place  where  moral  cen- 
sure was  severe,  but  it  was.  thought  a  weakness  in  the 
Squire  that  he  had  kept  all  his  sons  at  home  in  idle- 
ness; and  though  some  license,  was  to  be  allowed  to 
young  toen  whose  flithcrs  could  afford  it,  people  shook 
their  heads  at  the  courses  of  the  second  son,  Dunstan, 
coipmonly  called  Dunsey  Cass,  whose  taste  for  swop- 
ping imd  betting  might  turn  out  to  be  a  sowing  of 
something  worse  than  wild  oats.  To  be, sure,  the 
neighbours  said,  it  was  no  matter  what  became  of  Dun- 
sey— a  spiteful  jeering  fellow,  who  seemed  to  enjoy 
his  drink  the  more  when  other  people  went  dry — al- 
ways provided  that  his  doings  did  not  bring  trouble 
on  a  family  like  Squire  Cass's,  with  a  monument  in 
the  church,  s^ud  tankards  older  than  King  George. 
But  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  if  Mr.  Grbdfrey,  the 
eldest,  a  fine,  open-faced,  good-natured  young  man, 


\ 

36  SIL>*^    MARI^^l' 

who  was  to  come  into^th«  land  some  day,  should  take 
to  going  along  the  saifte  road  as  his  brother,  as  he  had 
seemed  to  do  of  late.  If  lie  went  'on  in  that  way,  lie 
would  lose  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter;  for  it  was  well 
known  that  she  had  looked  very  shyly  on  him  ever, 
since  last  Whitsuntide  twelvemonth,  when  there  was 
so  much  talk  about  his  being  away  from  home  days 
and  days  together.  There  was  something  wrong, 
more  than  common— that  was  quite  cleaf ;  ibr  Mr. 
Godfrey  didn't  look  half  so  fresh-coloured  and  open  as 
he  used  to  do.  At  one  time  everybody  was  saying 
what  a  handsome  couple  he  and  Miss  Nancy  Lamme- 
ter would  make!  and  if  she  could  come  to  be  mistress 
at  the  Eed  House  there  would  be  a  fine  change,  for 
the  Lammeters  had  been  b'rought  up  in  that  way  that 
they  never  suffered  a  pinch  of  salt  to  be  wasted,  and 
yet  everybody  in  their  household  had  of  the  best  ac- 
cording to  his  place.  Such  a  daughter-in-law  would 
be  a  saving  to  the  old  Squire,  if  she  never  brought  a 
penny  to  her  fortune,  for  it  was  to  be  feared,  that  not-, 
withstanding  his  incomings,  there  were  more  holes  in 
his  pocket  than  the  one  where  he  put  his  own  hand 
in.  But  if  Mr.  Godfrey  didn't  turn  over  a  new  leaf, 
he  might  say  "Good-by"  to  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter. 
It  was  the  once  hopeful  Godfrey  who  was  standing, 
with  his  hands  in  his  side-pockets  and  his  back  to  the 
fire,  in  the  dark  wainscoted  parlour,  one  late  Novem- 
,  ber  afternoon,  in  that. fifteenth  year  of  Silas  Marner's 
life^t  Raveloe.  The  fading  grey  light  fell  dimly  on 
the  walls  decorated  with  guns,  whips,  and  foxes' 
brushes,  on  coats  and  hats  flung  on  the  chairs,  on 


SIL^^    MARNER.  37 

iaiikaids  sondiiig  forth  a  scent  of  flat  ale,  and  on  a 
lialf-choked  fire,  with  pipes  propped  up  in  the  chim- 
ney-corners :  signs  of  a  domestic  hfe  destitute  of  any 
hallowing  charm,  with  which  the  look  of  gloomy  vex- 
ation on  Godfrey's  blond  face  was  in  sad  accordance. 
He  seemed  to  be  waiting  and  listening  for  some  one's 
approach,  and  presently  the  sound  of  a  heavy  step, 
with  an  accompanying  whistle,  was  heard  across  the 
large  empty  entrance-hall. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  thick-set,  heavy-looking 
young  man  entered,  with  the  flushed  face  and  the 
gratuitously  elated  bearing  which  mark  the  first  stage 
of  intoxication.  It  was  Dunsey,  and  at  the  sight  of 
him  Godfrey's  face  parted  with  some  of  its  gloom  to 
take  on  the  more  acti^ve  expression  of  hatred.  The 
handsome  brown  spaniel  that  lay  on  the  hearth'  re- 
treated under  the  chair  in  the  chimney-corner. 

•  "Well,  Master  Godfrey,  what  do  you  want  with 
me  1 "  said  Dunsey,  in  a  mocking  tone.  "  You're  my 
elders  and  betters  you  know  ;  I  was  obliged  to  come 
when  you  sent  for  me." 

"Why,  this  is  what  I  want — and  just  shake  your- 
self sober  and  listen,  will  you?"  said  Godfrey,  savage- 
ly. He  had"  himself  been  drinking  more  than  was 
good  for  him,  trying  to  turn  his  gloom  into  .uncalcu- 
lating  anger.  "I  want  to  tell  you,. I  must  hand  over 
that  rent  of  Fowler's  to  the  Squire,  or  else  tell  him  I 
gave  it  you ;  for  he's  threatening  to  distrain  for  it,  and 
it'll  all  be  out  soon,  whether  I  tell  him  or  not.  Ho 
said,  just  now,  before  he  went  out,  he  should  send 
word  to  Cox  to  distrain,  if  Fowjer  didrji't  come  and 


38  .SILAS    MAIiljrER. 

pay  up  his 'arrears  this  Week.  The  Squire's  short  o' 
cash,  and  iii  no  humor  to  stand  ia*iy.  nonsense  ;  and 
you' know  what  he  threatened,  if  ever  he  found  you 
making  away  with  lilii  money  again.  '  So,  see  and  get 
the  money,  and  pretty  quickly,  will  you  V  ■ 

"  Oh  !"  said  Dunsey,  sneeringly,  coming  .nearer  to 
his  brother  and  looking  in  his  face.  "Suppose,  now, 
yon  get  the  money  yourself,  and  save  me. the  trcjuble, 
eh  ?  Since  you  was  so  kind  as  to  haiid  it  over  to  Ine,  • 
you'll  not  refuse  me  the  kindness  to  pay  it  back  for 
me ;  it  was  your  brotherly  love  made  you  do  it,  you 
know." 

Godfrey  bit  his  lips  and  clenched  his  fist.  "  Don't 
come  near  me  with  that  look,  else  I'll  knock  you 
down."  > 

"0  no,  you  won't,"  said  Dunsey,'  turning  away  on 
his  heel,  however.  "  Because  I'm  such  a  good-natur- 
ed brother,  you  know.  I  might  get  you  turned  out^f 
house  and  home,  and -cut  off  with  a  shilling  any  day. 
I  might  tell  the  Squire  how  his  handsome  son  w^as 
married  to  that  nicer  young  woman,  Molly  Farren,  and 
was  very  unhappy  because  he  couldn't  live  with  his 
drunken  wife,  and  I  should  slip  into  your  place  as 
comfortable  as  could  be.  But  you  see,  I  don't  do  it 
^— I'm  so  easy  and  good-natured.  You'll  take  any 
trouble  for  me.  You'll  get  the  himdred  pounds  for 
me — I  know  you  will." 

"  How  can  I  get  the  money  ?"  said  Godfrey,  quiver- 
ing. "I  haven't  a  shilling  tobless  myself  with.  And 
it's  a  lie  that  you'd  slip  into  iny  place ;  you'd  get  your- 
self turned  out  too,  that's  all.     For  if  you  begin  tell-  ' 


f;iLAS    MARNER..  oii 

iug  laics,'  I'll  follow.     Bob's  my  father's  favourite— 
yoii  know  that  very  well.     Kc'd  only  think  himself, 
well  rid  of  you."  , 

"Never  mind,"  said  Dunsey,  nodding  his  head  side- 
ways as  he  looked  out  of  the  window.  ".It 'ud  bo 
very  pleasant  to  me  to  go  in  your  company- — you're 
sudi  a  handsome  brother,  and  we've  always  beeii  so 
fond  of  quarrelling  with  one  another,  I  shouldn't  know 
what  to  do  without  you.  '  But  you'd  like  better  for 
us.  both  to  stay  at  home  together ;  I  know  you  would. 
So  you'll  manage  to  get  tha't  little  sum  o'  money,  and 
I'll  bid  you  good-by,  though  I'm  sorry  to  part." 

.  Dunstan  was  mox'ing  off,  but  Grodfrey  rushed  after 
'him  and  seized  him  by  the  arm",  saying  with  an  oath, 

"  I  tell  you,  I  have  no  money :  I  can  get  no  money." 

"  Borrow  of  old  Kimble." 

"I  tell  you;  he  won't  lend  me  any  more,  and  I 
shan't  ask  him." 

"Well  then,  sell  Wildfire." 

"  Yes,  that's  easy  talking.  I  must  have  the  money 
directly." 

"  Well,  you've  only  got  to  ride  him  to  the  hunt  to- 
morrow.- There'll  be  Bryce  and  Keating  there,  for 
sure.     You'll  get  more  bids  than  one." 

"  I  daresay,  and  get  back  home  at  eight  o'clock, 
splashed  up  to  the  chin.  I'm  going  to  Mrs.  Osgood's 
birthday  dance." 

"  Ohq  !"  said  Dunsey,  turning  his  head  on  one  side, 
and. trying  to  speak  in  a  smal)  mincing  treble.  "And 
there's  sweet  Miss  Nancy  coming ;  and  we  shall  dance 


40  SILAS    MARNER. 

with  l^r,  and  promise  never  in  ^e  naiiglity  n<^-'^m,  and 
be  taken  into  favour,  and — 

"Hold  your  tongue,  about  Miss  Nancy,  j^ou  fool,'"  . 
said  Godfrey,  turning  red,  "  else  J'll  throttle  you." 

"What  for?"  said  Dunsey,  still  in  an  artificial  tone, 
but  taking  a  whip  from  the  table  and  beating  the  butt- 
end  of  it  on  his  palm.  "You've  a  very  good  chaifce. 
■  I'd  advise  yoit  to  creep  up  her  sleeve  again :  it  'ud  be 
saving  time  if  Molly  should  happen  to  tak,e  a  drop  too 
much  laudanum  some  day,  and  make  a  widower  of 
you.  Miss  ^Nancy  wouldn't  mind  being  a  second,  if 
she  didn't  know  it.  And  you've  got  a  good-naiured 
brother,  who'll  keep  your  secret  well,  because  you'll ' 
be  so  very  obliging  to  him." 

',  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Godfrey,  quivering, 
and  pale  again.  "My  patience  is  pretty  near  at  an 
end.  If  you'd  a  little  more  sharpness  in.  you,  you 
might  know  that  you  might  urge  a  man  a  bit  too  far^ 
and  make  one  leap  as  eiisy.as  another.  I  don't  know^ 
but  what  it  is  so  now:  I  may  as  well  tell  the  .Squire 
everything  myself — I  should  get  you  off  _  my  back,  if  , 
I  got  nothing  else.  And,  after  all,  he'll  know  some 
time.  She's  been  threatening  to  come  herself  and  tell 
him.  So,  don't  flatter  yourself  that  your  secrecy's 
worth  any  price  you  choose  to  ask.^  You  drain  me 
of  money  till  I've  got  nothing  to  pacify  her  with,  and 
she'll  do  as  she  threatens  some  day.  It's  all  one.  I'll 
tell  my  father  everything  myself,  and  you  may  go  to 
the  devil." 

Dunsey  perceived  that  he  had  overshot  his  mark, 
and  that  there  was  a  point  at  which  even  the  hesita- 


SILAS    MARNER.  Al 

ting  Godfrey  might  be  driven  into  decision.     But  he  . 
said,  with  an  air  of  unconcern, 

"As  you  i^lease;  but  I'll  have  a  dniugiji  ui  r.n:  lu  :.' 
7Vnd  ringing  the.  bell,  he  threw  himself  across  twr» 
chairs,  and  began  to   rap  the  window-seat  with  the 
handle  of  his  whip. 

Godfrey  stood,  still  with  his  back  to  the  lire,  uneas- 
ily moving  liis  fingers  among  the  contents  of  his  side- 
pockets,  and  lookjng  at  the  lloor.  That  big  muscular- 
frame  of  his  held  plenty  of  animal  courage,  but.helped 
him  to  no  decision  when  the  dangers  to  be  braved 
were  such  as  could  neither  be  knocked  down  nor 
throttled.  His  natural  irresolution  and  moral  cow- 
ardice  were  exaggerated  by  a  position  in  which 
dreaded  consequences  seemed  to  press  equally  on  all 
sides,  and  his  irritation  had  no  sooner  provoked  him 
to  defy  Dunstan  and  anticipate  all  possible  betrayals, 
than  the  miseries  he  must  bring  on  himself  by  such  a 
step  seemed  more  unendurable  to  him  than -the  pres- 
ent evil.  The  results  of  confession  were  not  contin-* 
gent,  they  were  certain;  whereas  betrayal  was 'not 
certain.  From  the  near  vision  of  thai  certainty  he 
fell  back  on  suspense  and  vacillation  with  a  sense  of 
repose.  The  disinherited  son  of  a  small  squire,  equal- 
ly disinclined  to  dig  and  to  beg,  was  almost  as  helpless 
as  an  uprooted  tree,  which,  by  the  favour  of  earth  and 
sky,  has  grown  to  a  handsome  bulk  on  the  spot  where 
it  first  shot  upward.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
possible  to  think  of  digging  with  some  cheerfulness  if 
Nancy  Lammeter  were  to  be  won  on  those  terras;' 
but,  since %he  must  iiTevocably  lose  ker  as  well  as  the 


■  42      .  SILAS    MARNEE. 

•  inheritance,^  arid  must  break  every  tie  but  the  one  that 
degl-aded  him  and  left  hiiii  without  motive ■  for  trj-in^^ 
tp  recover  his  better  self,  he  could  imagine  no  future 
for  himself  on  the  other  side-  of  confession  but  thatf. 
of  "'listing  for  a  soldier"— the  most  desperate  step, 
short  of  suicide,  in  the-  eyes  of  respectable  families. 
No!  he  would  rather  trust  to  casualties  than  to  , his 

■'own  resolve — rather  go  on  sitting  at  the  feast  and  sip- 
ping the  wine  he  loved,  though  with  the  s^Yord  hang- 
ing over  him  and  terror  in  his  heart,  than  rush  uway 
into  the  cold  darkness'  where  there  was  no  pleasure 
left.  The  utmost  concession  to  Dunstan  about  the 
horse  began  to  seem  easy,  compared  with  the  fulfil- 
mient  of  his  own  threat.  But  his  pride  would  not  let 
him  recommence  the  conversation  otherwise  than  by 
continuing  the  quarrel  Dunstan  was  waiting  for  this, 
and  took  his  ale  in  shorter  draughts  than  usual. 

"It's  just  like  you,"  Godfrey,  burst  'out,  in  a  bitter 
tone,  "to  talk  about  my  selhng  Wildfire  in  that  cool 
way— the  last  thing  I've  got  to  call  my  own,  and  the 
best  bit  of  horse-flesh  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  And  if 
you'd  got  a  spark  of  pride. in  you,  you'd  be  ashamed 

,  to  see  the  stables  emptied,  and  everybody  sneering 
about  it.  But  it's  my  belief  you'd  sell  yourself,  if  it 
was  only  for  the  pleasure  of  making  somebody  feel 
he'd  got  a,  bad  bargain." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  very  placably,  "you  do 

me  justice,  I  see.     You  know  I'm  a  jewel  for  'ti(ftng 

^  people  into  bargains.     For  which  reason  I'advise you 

*to  let  7iie  sell  Wildfire.  I'd  ride  him  to  the  hunt  to- 
morrow for  you, .  with  pleasure.  '  I  should'nt  look  so 


■  iJ.AS      ..IRNER.  43 

handsome  as-  you  in  the  safldlo>  but  it's  the  (lorse 
they'll  bid  for,and  not  the  rider"         •  ' ; 

"Yes,  I  daresay — trust  my  horse  to  you!"  • 

"As  you  please,"  said  !Duiistan,  rapping  the  win- 
dow-seat again  with  an  air  ol"  great  unconcern.  "It'-s" 
yaw  have  got  to  pay  Fowler's  money;  it's  nx)nc  of  liiy 
business.  You  received  the  money  from  him  when 
you  went  to  Bramcpte,  and  you  told  the  Srjuire  it 
wasn't  paid.  I'd  nothing- to  do  with  that;  you  chose' 
to  be  so  obliging  as  give  it  me,  that  was  all.  If  you 
don't  want  to  pay  the^  money,  let  it  alone;  its  .all  one 
tome.  But  I  was  willing  to  accommodate,  you  by 
undertaking  to  sell  the  horse,  seeing  it's  nut  conven- 
ient to  3^ou  to  go  so  far  to-morrow." 

Godfrey  was  silent  for  some  moment's.  He  woiild 
have  liked  to  spring  on  Dunstan,  wrencli  the  whip 
from  his  hand,  and  ilog  him  to  within  an  inch  of  his 
life;  and  no  bodily  fear  could  have  deterred  him; 
Ijut  he  was  mastered  by  another  so.rt  of  fear,  which 
as  feid  by  feelings  stronger  even  than  his  resentment. 
\Vhen  he  spoke  again,  ft  was  in  a  half-conciliatory  tone. 

"Well,  you  mean  no  nonsense  about  the  horse,  eh? 
You'll  sell  him  all  fair,  and  hand  over  the  money? 
If  you  don't,  you  know,  everything  '11  go  to  smash, 
for  I've  got  nothing  else  to  trust  to.^  ;  And  you'll  have 
less  pleasurp  in  pulling,  the  house  over  my  head,  when 
your  own  skull's  to  be  broken  too." 

"Ay;  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  rising,  "all  right.  I  thought 
you'd  come  round.  I'm  the  fellow  to  bring  old  Bryce 
up  to  the  scratch. ,  I'll  get  you  aliundred  and  twenty 
for  him,  if  I  get  you  a  penny." 


■44  Sir.AS    MARNEK. 

"Ivut  it'll  perhaps  rain  cats  and  dogs  to-morrow,  as 
it  did  j^esterday,  and  then  you  c^n't  go,"  said  Godfrey, 
liiir41y  knowing  whether  he  wished  for  that  obstacle 
or  not  ..  _       . 

"Not  zV,"  said  Dunstan.  *' Im  always  lucky  in  my 
weather.  It  might  rain  if  you  wanted  to  go  yourself. 
You  never  hold  ti:umps,  you  know — I  always  do. 
You've  got  the  beauty,  you  see,  and  I've  got  the  luck, 
'so  you  must  keep  nie  by  you  for  your  crooked  six- 
pence ;  you'll  ?ie-Yer  get  along  without  me." 

"Confound  you,  hold  your  tongue,"  said  Godfrey, 
impetuously.  "And  take  care  to  keep  sobor  to-mor- 
row, else -you'll  get  pitched  on* your  head  coming 
home,  and  Wildfire  might  be  the  worse  for  it." 
*■  "Make  your  tender  heart  easy,"  said  Dunstan, 
opening  the.4oor.  "You  never  knew  me  see  double 
when  J'd  got  a  bargain  to  make;  it  'ud  spoil  the  fun. 
Besides,  whenever  I  fall,  I'm  warranted  to  fall  on  my 
lejjs." 

.  With  that,  Dunstan  slammed  the  door  behind  him, 
and  left  Godfrey  to  that  bitter  rumination  on  his  per- 
sonal circumstances  which  was  now  unbroken  from 
day  to  day  save  by  the  excitement  of  sporting,  drink- 
ing, card-playing,  or  the  rarer  and  less  oblivious  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter.  The  subtle  and 
varied  pains  springing  from  the  higher  sej^sibihty  that 
accompanies  higher  culture,  are  perhaps  less  pitiable 
than  that  dreary  absence  of  impersonal  enjoyment  and 
consolation  which  leaves  ruder  minds  to  the  perpetual 
urgent  companionship  of  their  own  griefs  and  discon- 
tents.    The  Uvea  of  those  rural  forefather?,  whom  we 


SILAS    MARKER.  45 

are  apt;  'to  think  very  prosaic  figures — men  wlioseonly. 
work  was  to  ride  round  their  land,  getting  heavier  aild 
heavier  in  their  saddles,  and  who  -passed  the  rest  of 
tlieir  days  in  the  halt-listless  .gratification  of  senses 
dulled  by  monotony — had  a  certain  pathos  in  them 
nevertheless.  Calamities  came  to  ihem  too,  and  their 
.early  errors  carried  ha^d  cojisequences :  perhaps  the 
love  of  some  sweet  maiden,  the  image  of  purity,  or- 
der, and  calm,  had  opened  their  eyes  to  the  vision  of 
a  life  in  which  the  days  would  not  seem  too  long,  even 
vv'ithout  riotidg;  but  the  maiden  was  lost,  and  the 
vision  i)assed  away,  and  then  what  was  left  to  .them, 
especially  when  they  had  become  too  heavy  for  the 
hunt,  or  for  carrying  a  gun  over  the  furrows,  but  to 
drink  and  get  merry,  or  to  drink  and  get  angry,  so  thdt 
they  might  be  independent  of  variety,  and  say  over 
again  with  eager  emphasis  the  things  they  had  said  al- 
ready any  time  tliat  twelve-month  1  Assuredly,  ajiidng- 
these  flushed  and  dull-eyed  men  there  were  some  whom 
— thanks  to  their  native  human  kindness — even  riot 
could  never  drive  into  brutality  ;  men  who,  when  their 
cheeks  were  fresh,  had  felt  the  keen  point  of  sorrow 
or  remorse,  had  been  pierced  by  the  reeds  they  lean- 
ed on,  or  had  lightly  put  tlieir  limbs  in  fetters  from 
which  no  struggle  could  loose  them;  and  under  these 
sad  circumstances,  common  to  us  all,  their  thoughts 
could  find  no  resting-place  outside  the  ever-trodden 
round  of  their  own  petty  history. 

That,  at  least,  was  the  condition  of  Grodfrey  Cass  iv, 
this  six-and-twentieth  year  of  his  life.  A  moveineiit 
of  compunction,  helped  by  those  small  indefinablq,49- 


4:0  ^  ;j.L.>..^    .,x...;a..u, 

iuieaces  .\vhicli  every  ])ers0nal  relaiion  e:icrls  uu  c.  i>it- 
ant  nature,  bad  urged  l}iu,i  into  a  secretmarriage,  which 
was  a  bhght  on  his  lifo.^  It  \vas  an  ugly  story  of  low 
passion,  delusion,  and,  waking  from  delusion,  which 
needs  not  to  be  dragged  from  the  privacy  of  Godfrey's 
bitter  memory.  He  had  long  known  "that  the  delusion 
was  partly  ^no  to  a  trap  laid  for  hin^.  by  Dunstan,  who 
saw  in  his  brother's- degra,ding  marriage  the  means  of 
gratifying  at. once  his  jealous  hate  and  his  cupidity. 
And  if  Godfrey  could  have  felt  himself  simply  a  vic- 
tim, the  iron  bit  that  destiny  had  put  into  his  .mouth 
would  have  chafed  him  less  intolej-ably;  If  the  curses 
he  mutteted^half  aloud  when  he  %vas  alone  had  had  no 
other  object  than  Dunstan's  diabolical  cunning,  he 
might  have  shrunk  .less  from  the  consequences  of 
avowal.  But  he  had  something  else  to  ciirse— his 
own  vicious  folly,  which  now  seemed  as  mad  and  un- 
accountable to  him  as  almost  all'  our  follies  and  vices 
do  when  their  promptings  have  long  passed  away. 
For  four  years  he  had  thought  of  Nancy  Lamnieter, 
and  wooed  her  with  tacit  patient  worship,  as  the  wo- 
man who  made  him  think  of  the  future  with  joy :  she 
would  be  his  wife,  and  would  make  home  lovely  to 
him,  as  his  father's  home  had  never  been;  and  it 
would  be  easy,  v^hen  she  was  alwjays  near,  to  shake 
off  those  fooHsh  habits  that,  were  no  pleasures,  but 
only  a  feverish  way  of  annulling  vacancy.  Godfrey's 
was  an  essentially  domestic  nature,  bred  up  iji  a  home 
where  the  hearth  had  no  smiles,  and  whei>e  the  daily 
habits  were  not  chastised  bj'^the  presence  of  household 
order;  his  easy  disposition  made,  him  fall  in  unresist- 


SILA-S.  MARNER.  -i-i 

m^j^ly  vritli  the  family  ^courses,  but  the  need  ot  some 
tender  permanent  aiiection,  the  longing  for,  somo  in-- 
lluc^icc  thut  would  •nuke  the  <iood  he  preferred  easy 
to  pursue,  caused  the  neatness,  purity,- and  liberal  or- 
derliness of  tlie  Lamnie.ter  household,  SUnned  by  the 
inilcof  Naney,  toseeni  like  those  fresh  bright  hours 
of  the  uiorning,  whin  tem\)tatious  go  \o  sleep,  and 
leave  the  ear  open  to  the  voice  of  thegood  angel,'  in- 
viting to  industry,  sobriety,  and  pcace^  And  yot  the 
hope  of  this  paradise  had  not  been  enough  to  save  him 
from  a  course  vdiiich  shut  him  out  of  it  for  ever.  In- 
stead of  keeping  fast  hold  of  the  stl'on'g  silken  rope  by 
which  Nancy  would  have  drawn  him  safe  to  the  green 
banks,  where  it  was  easy^pto  step  firmly,  he  had  let 
himself  be  dragged  back  into  mud  and  shme,  in  which 
it  was  useless  to  struggle.  •  Hfe  had  made  ties  for  him- 
self which  robbed  him  of  all  wholesome  motive,  and 
were  a  constant  exasperation. 

Still"  there  v,as  oiie  position  worse  than  the  present : 
it  was  the  position  he  would  be  in  when  the  ugly  se- 
cret was  disclosed;  and  the  desire  that  continually  tri- 
umphed over  every  other  was  that  of  warding  ofl'  tlie 
evil  day,'^Vhen  he  would  have  to  bear  the  consequences 
of  his  fainer's  violent  resentment  for  the  wound  in- 
flicted on  his  family, pride — would  have,  perhaps,  to 
tu,rn  his  back  on  that  hereditary  ease  and  dignity 
which,  after  all,  was  a  sort  of  reason  for  living,  and 
would  carry  with  him  the  certainty  that  he  was  ban- 
ished for  ever  from  the  sight-  and  esteem  of  Nancy 
Lammeter.  The  longer  the  interval,  the  more  chance 
there  was  of  deliverance  from  some,  at  least,  of  the 


48-  SILAS    MAKNER. 

hateful 'consequences  to  which  he  had  spid  him^elf^ — 
the  more  opportunities  remained  for  him  to' snatch  the 
strange  gratification  of  seeing' Naiicy,,  and  gathering 
some  faint  indications  of  her  lingering  regard.  'To* 
wards  this  gratification  he  was  impelled,  fitfully,  every 
nov/  arid  then,  after  having  passed  weeks  in  which  he 
had  avoided  her  as  the  far-off,  bright-winged  prize, 
that  only  made  him  spring  forward,  and  ^nd  his  chain 
all  the  more  galling.  One  of  those  fits  of  yearning 
was  on  him  now,  and  it  would  have  been  strong 
enough  to  have  persuaded  him  to  trust  Wildfire  to 
Dunstan  rather  i  than  disappoint  the  yearfting,  even  if  ■ 
he  had  not  had  another  reason  for  his  disinclination 
towards  the  morrow's  hunt.  That  other  reason  was 
the  fact  that  the  morn'ing's  meet  was  near  Batherley, 
the  market-town  where  the  unhappy  woman  lived,' 
whose  image  became  more  odious  to  him  everyday; 
and  to  his  thought  the  whole  vicinage  was  haunted 
by  her.  '  The  yoke  a  man  creates  for  himself  by 
wrong-doing  will  breed  hate  in  the  kindliest  nature; 
and  the  good-humoured,  affectionate-hparted  Godfrey 
Cass  was  fast  becoming  a  bitter  man,  visited  by  cruel 
wishes,  that  seemed  to  enter;  and  depart,  fjjid  enter 
again,  like  demons  who  had  found  in  hi  id  a  ready- 
garnished  home.  . 

What  was  he  to  do  this  evening  to  pass  the  time  ? 
He  might  as  well  go  to  the  Rainbow,  and  hear  the  . 
talk  about  the  cock-fighting :  everybody  was  there, 
and  what  else  was  there  to  be  done  ?  Though,  for  his 
own  part,  he  did  not  care  a  button  for  cock-fighting. 
Snuflf,  the  brown  spaniel,  who  had  placed  herself«in 


SILAS    MAKNEK.  49 

front  of  him,  and  had  beon  watchicg  him  for  some 
time,  now  jumped  up  in  impatience  for  the  expected 
caress.  But  Godfrey  thrust  her  away  without  look- 
ing at  her,  and  left  the  room,  followed  humbly  by  the 
unresenting  Snuff — perhaps  because  she  saw  no  other 
career  open  to  her. 


50  SILAS    MARNER. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DuNSTAN  Cass,  setting  off  in  the  raw  morning,  at 
the  judiciously  quiet  pace  of  a  man  who  is  obliged  to 
ride  to  cover  on  his  hunter,  had  to  take  his  way  along 
the  lane,  which,  at  its  farther  extremity,  passed  by  the 
piece  of  unenclosed  ground  called  the  Stonepit,  where 
stood  the  cottage,  once  a  stone-cutter's  shed,  now  for 
fifteen  years  inhabited  by  Silas  Marner.  The  spot 
looked  very  dreary  at  this  season,  with  the  moist  trod- 
den clay  about  it,  and  the  red,  muddy  water  high  up 
in  tiie  deserted  quarry.  That  was  Dunstan's  first 
thought  as  he  approached  it ;  the  second  was,  that  the 
old  fool  of  a  weavjer,  whose  loom  he  heard  rattling  al- 
ready, had  a  great  deal  of  money  hidden  somewhere. 
How  was  it  that  he,  Dunstan  Cass,  who  Had  often 
heard  talk  of  Marner's  miserliness,  had  never  thought 
of  suggesting  to  Godfrey  that  he  siiould  frighten  or 
persuade  the  old  fellow  into  lending  the  money  on  the 
excellent  security  of  the  young  Squire's  prospects  ? 
The  resource  occurred  to  him  now  as  so  easy  and 
agreeable,  especially  as  Marner's  hoard  was  likely  to 
be  large  enough  to  leave  Godfrey  a  handsome  surplus 
beyond  his  immediate  needs,  and  enable  him  to  accom- 
modate his  faithful  brother,thaf  he  had  almost  turned 
the  horse's  head  towards  home  again.  Godfrey  would 
be  ready  enough  to  accept  the  suggestion :  he  would 


SILAS    MARNEK.  61 

snatch  eagerly  at  a  plan  that  might  save  him  from 
parting  wi^h  Wildfire.  BuB^hen^  Dunstan's  medita- 
tion reached  tiiis  point,  the  inclination  to  go  on  grew 
strong  and  prevailed.  He  didn't  want  to  give  Godfrey 
that  pleasure :  he  preferred  that  Master  Godfrey  should 
be  vexed.  Moreover,  Dunstan  enjoyed  the  self-im- 
portant consciousness  of  having  a  horse  to  sell,  and 
the  opportunity  of  driving  a  bargain,  swaggering,  and, 
possibly,  taking  somebody  in.  He  might  have  all  the 
satisfaction  attendant  on  sdiing  his  brother's  horse, 
and  not  the  less  have  the  further  satisfaction  of  set- 
ting Godfrey  to  borrow  Marner's  money.  So  he  rode 
on  to  cover. 

Bryce  and  Keating  were  there,  as  Dunstan  was 
(juite  sure  they  would  be — he  was  such  a  lucky  fel- 
low. 

"  Hey-day,"  said  Bryce,  who  had  long  had  his  eye 
on  Wildfire,  "you're  on  your  brother's  horse  to-day: 
how's  that?" 

"O,  I've  swopped  with  him,"  said  Dunstan,  whose 
delight  in  lying,  grandly  independent  of  utility,  was 
not  to  be  diminished  by  the  hkelihood  that  his  hear- 
er would  not  believe  him — "Wildfire's  mine  now." 

"What!  ha§  he  swopped  with  you  for  tliat  big- 
boned  hack  of  yours?"  said  Bryce,  quite  aware  that 
he  should  get  another  lie  in  answer. 

*•  O,  there  was  a  little  account  between  us,"  said 
Dunsey,  carelessly,  "and  Wildfire  made  it  even.  I 
accommodated  him  by  taking  the  horse,  though  it  was 
against  my  will,  for  I'd  got  an  itch  for  a  mare  o'  Jor- 
tiu.'s-^as  rare  a  bit  o'  blood  as  ever  you  threw  your 


52  SILAS    MARNEB. 

leg  across.  But  I  shall  keep  Wildfire,  iiow  I've  got 
him;  though  I'd  a  bid  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  for  him 
the  other  day,  from  a  man  over  at  Flitton — he's  buy- 
ing for  Lord  Crohileck — a  fellow  with  a  cast  in  his 
eye,  and  a  green  waistcoat.  Bat  i  mean  to  stick  to 
Wildfire  :  I  shan't  get  a  better  at  a  fence  in  a  hurry. 
The  mare's  got  more  blood,  but  she's  a  bit  too  weak 
in  tlie  hind-quarters." 

Bryce  of  course  divined  that  Dunstan  wanted  to 
sell,  the  horse,  and  Durtstan  knew  that  he  divined  it 
(horse-dealing  is  only  one  of  many  human  transac- 
tions carried  on  in  this  ingenious  manner);  and  they 
both-  considered  that  the  bargain  was  in  its  first  stage, 
when  Bryce  rephed  ironically — 

"I  wonder  at  that  noW;  I  wonder  you  mean  to 
keep  him;  for  I  never^  heard  «of  a  man  who  didn't 
want  to  sell  liis  horse  getting  a  bid  of  half  as  much 
again  as  the  horse  was  worth.  You'll  be  lucky  if  you 
get  a  hundred." 

Keating  rode  up  now,  and  the  transaction  becanie 
more  complicated.  It  ended  in  the  purchase  of  the 
horse  by  Bryce  for  a  hundred  and  twenty,  to  be  paid 
on  the  delivery  of  Wildfire,  safe  and- sound,  at  the 
Batherley- stables.  It  did  occur  to  Punso}^  that  it 
might  be  wise  for  him  to  give  up  the  day's  hunting, 
proceed  at  once  to  Batherley,  and,  having  waited  for 
Bryce's  return,  hire  a  horse  to  carry  him  home  with 
the  money  in  his  pocket.  But  the  inclination  for  a 
run,  encouraged  b}'  confidence  in  his  luck,  and  by  a 
draught  of  brandy  from  his  pocket-pistol  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  bargain,  was  not  easy  to  overcome,  es- 


SILAS    MARNER.  53 

pecially  with  a  horse  under  him  that  would  take  the 
icrioes  to  the  admiration  of  the  field.  Dunstaii,  how- 
ever, took  one  fence  too  many,  and  ''staked"  his 
horse.  His  own  ill-favored  person,  which  was  quite 
unmarketable,  escaped  without  injury,  but  poor  Wild- 
fire, unconscious  of  his  price,  turned  on  his  flank,  and 
painfully  panted  his  last.  It  happened  that  Dunstan, 
a  short  time  before,  having  had  to  get  down  to  arrange 
his  stirrup,  had  muttered  a  good  mau}^  curses  at  this 
interruption,  which  had  thrown  him  in  the  roar  of  the 
hunt  near  the  moment  of  glory,  and  under  this  exas- 
peration had  taken  the  fences  more  blindly.  He 
would  soon  have  been  up  with  the  hounds  again, 
when  the  fatal  accident  happened ;  and  henroe  he  was 
between  eager  riders  in  advance,  not  troublftig  them- 
selves about  what  happened  behind  them,  and  far-off 
stragglers,  who  were  as  likely  as  not  to  pass  quite 
aloof  from  the  line  of  road  in  which  Wildfire  had 
fallen.  Dunstan,  whose  nature  it  was  to  care  more 
for  immediate  annoyances  than  for  remote  conse- 
quences, no  sooner  recovered  his  legs,  and  saw^  that  it 
was  all  over  with  Wildfire,  than  he  felt  a  satisfaction 
at  the  absence  of  witnesses  to  a  position  which  no 
swaggering  could  make  enviable.  Reinforcing  him- 
self, after  his  shake,  with  a  little  brandy  and  muth 
swearing,  he  walked  as  fast  as  he  could  to  a  coppice 
on  liis  right  hand,  through  which  it  occurred  to  hmi 
that  he  could  make  his  way  to  Batherley  without  dan- 
ger of  encountering  any  member  of  the  hunt.  His 
first  intention  was  to  hire  a  horse  there  and  ride  home  , 
tbrthwith,  for  to  walk  many  miles  without  a  gun  in 


\ 

54  '     SILAS    MARNER, 

his  hand,  and  along  an  ordinary  road,  wets  as  much 
out  of  the  question  to  him  as  to  other  spirited  young 
men  of  his  kind.  He  did  not  much  mind' about  tak- 
ing the  bad  news  to  Godfrey,  for  he  had  to  offer  him 
at  the  same  time  the  resource  of  Marner  r  money:  and 
if  Godfrey  kicked,  as  he  ahvays  did,  at  the  notion  of 
;  making  a  fresh  debt,  from  which  he  himself  got  the 
smallest  share  of  advantage,  why,  he  wouldn't  kick 
long:  Dunstan  UM  sure  ho  could  worry  Godfrey  into 
anything.  The  idea  of  Marner's  money  kept  growing 
in  vividness,  now  the  want  of  it  had  become  imme- 
diate; tlie  prospect  of  having  to  make  his  appearance 
with  the  muddy  boots  of  a  pedestrian  at  Batherley, 
and  encounter  the  grinning  queries  of  stablemen,  stood 
unpleasantly  in  the  way  of  his  impatience  to  be  back 
at  Eaveloe  and  cariy  out  his  felicitous  plan;  and  a 
casual  visitation  of  his  waistcoat-pocket,  as  he  was  ru- 
minating, awakened  his  memory  to  the  fact  the  .two 
or  three  small  coins  his  fore-finger  encountered  there 
were  of  too  pale  a  colour  to  cover  that  small  debt, 
without  payment  of.  which  Jennings  had  declared  he 
would  never  do  any  more  business  with  Dunsey  Cass. 
After  all,  according  to  the  direction  in  which  the  run 
had  brought  him,  he  was  not  so  very  much  farther 
from  home  than  he  was  from  Batherley ;  but  Dunsey, 
not  being  remarkable  for  clearness  of  head,  was  only 
leSd  to  this  conclusion  by  the  gradual  perception  that 
there  were  other  ,j-casons  for  choosing  the  unprece- 
dented course  of  vi^alking  home.  It  was  now  nearly 
four  o'clock,  and  a  mist  was  gathering:  the  sooner  he 
got  into  the  road  the  better.     He  remembered  having 


SILAS    MARNEli.  55 

cross(id  the  road  and  seen  tli6  finger-post  only  a  little 
whire  before  Wildfire  broke  down;  so,  buttoniLi.g  Ids 
co;it,  twisting  the  lash  of  his  hunting-whip  compactly 
round  the  handle,  and  rapp.ing  the  tops*of  his  boots 
with  a  self-possessed  air,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  ho 
w/is  not  at  all  taken  by  surprise,  he  set  ofl'  witli  tlio 
sense  that  he  was  undertaking  a  remarlcable  feat  of 
bodily  exertion,  wdiich  somehow,  and  at  some  time,  he 
should.be  able  to  dress  up  and  magnify  to  the  ad- 
miration of  a  select  circle  at  the  Rainbow.     When  a 
young  gentleman  like  Dunsey  is  reduced  to  so  excep- 
tional a  mode  of  locomotion  as  w^alking,  a  whip  in  Ms 
hand  is  a  desirable  corrective  to  a  too  bewildering 
dreamy  sense  of  unwonto<lness  in  his  position; .  and 
Dulistan,  as  he  went  along  through  the   gathering 
'  mist,  was  always  rapping  his  whip  somewhere.     It 
was  Godfrey's  whip,  which  lie  had  chosen  to  take 
without  leave  because  it  had  a  gold  handle;  of  course 
no  one  could  see,  when  Dunstan  held  it,  that  the  name 
■  Godfrey  Cass  was  cut  in  deep  letters  on  that  gold  han- 
dle— they  could  only  see  that  it  was  a  very  handsome 
whip.     Dunsey  was  not  without  fear  that  he  might 
meet  some  acquaintance  in  whose  eyes  he  would  cut 
a  pitiable  figure,  for  mist  is  no  screen  when  pqople  get 
close*  to  each  other;   but  when  he  at  last  found  hijn- 
self  in  the  well-known  Raveloe  lanes  without  havius- 
met  a  soul,  he  silently  remarlied  that  that  was  part  of 
liis  usual  good-luck.     But  now  the  mist,  help^cj  by  the 
evening  darkness,  vv^as  more  of  a  screen  than  he  de- 
sired, for  it  hid  the  ruts  into  which  his  feet  were  liable 
to  slip — hid  everything,  so  that  he  had  to  guide  his, 


56  SILAS    MARNER. 

steps  by  dragging  his  whip  along  the  low  bushes  in 
advance  of  the  hedgerow.  He  must  soon,  he  thought, 
be  getting  near  the  opening  .at  the  Stone-pits :  he 
should  find  ft  out  by  the  break  in  the  hedgerow.  He 
found  it  out,  however,  by  another  circumstance  which 
he  had  not  expected — ^namely,  by  certain  gleams  ,of 
light,  which  he  presently  guessed  to  proceed  from  Si- 
las Marner's  cottage.  That  cottage  and  the  money 
hidden  within  it  had  been  in  his  mind  continually, 
during  his  walk,  and  he  had  been  imagining  ways  of 
cajoling  and  tempting  the  weaver  to  part  with  the  im- 
mediate possession  of  his  money  for  the  sake  of  re- 
ceiving interest.  Dunstan  felt  as  if  there  nmst  be  a 
little  frightening  added  to  the  cajolery,  for  his  own 
arithmetical  convictions  were  not  clear  enough  to  af- 
ford him  any  forcible  demonstration  as  t©  the  advant- 
ages of  interest ;  and  as  for  security,  he  regarded  it 
vaguely  as  a  means  of  cheating  a  man,  by  "hiaking  him 
believe  that  he  would  be  paid.  Altogether,  the  opera- 
tion on  the  miser's  mind  was  a  task  that  Godfrey  would 
be  sure  to  hand  over  to  his  more  daring  and  cunning 
brother :  Dunstan  had  made  up  his  mind  to  that ;  and 
by  the  time  he  saw  the  light  gleaming  through  the 
chinks  of  Marner's  shutters,  the  idea  of  a  dialogue  with 
the  weaver  ^had  become  so  familiar  to  him,  that  it  oc-  . 
curred  to  him  as  quite  a  natural  thing  to  make  the 
acquaintance  forthwith.  There  might  be  several  con- 
veniences attending  this  course :  the  weaver  had  pos-. 
sibly  got  a  lantern,  and  Dunstan  was  tired  of  feeling 
his  way.  He  was  still  nearly^  three-quartersof  amile  ' 
from  home,  and  the  lane  was  becoming  unpleasantly 


^  SILAS    MARNER.  '     f)? 

.slippeiy,  for  the  mist  was  pnssinir  into  rain.  He  turn- 
ed up  the  bank,  not  without  some  fear  lest  he  should 
miss  the  right  way,  since  lie  w?jr  not  certain  whether 
the  light  were  in  front  or  on  the  side  of  the  cottns^e. 
But  he  felt  the  ground  before  him  cautiously  with  his 
whip-handle,  and  at  last  arrived  safely  at  the  door. 
He  knocked  loudly,  rather  enjoyinglthe  idea  that  the 
old  fellow  would  be  frightened  at  the  suddei*  noise. 
He  'heard  no  movement  in  reply :  all  was  silence  in 
the  cottage.  Was  the  weaver  gone  to  ])ed,  then?  If 
so,  why  had  lie  left  a  light  ?  That  was  a  strange  for- 
getfulncss  in  a  miser.  Dmistan  knocked  still  more 
loudly,  and,  without  pausing  for  a  reply,  pushed  his 
fingers  through  the  latch-hole,  intending  to  shake  the 
door  and  pull  the  latch-string  up  and  down,  not  doubt- 
ing that  the  door  was  fastened.  But,  to  his  surprise, 
at  this  double  motion  the  door  opened,  and  he  found 
himself,  in  front  of  a  bright  fire,  which  lit  up  every 
corner  of  the  cottage — the  bed,  the  loom,  the  three 
chairs,  and  the  table— and  showed  him  that  Marner 
was  not  there.  * 

Nothing  at  that  moment  could  be  much  more  invit- 
ing to  Dunsey.thau  the  bright  fire  on  the  brick  hearth : 
he  walked  in  and  seated  himself  by  it  at  once.  '  There 
was. something  in  front  of  the  fire,  too,  that  would  have 
been  inviting  to  a  hungry  man,  if  it  had  been  in  a  dif- 
ferent stage .  of  cooking.  It  was  a  small  bit  of  pork 
suspended  from  the  kettle-hanger  by  a  string  passed 
through  a  large  door-key,  in  a  way  known  to  primi- 
tive housekeepers  unpossessed  of  jacks.  But  the  pork 
had  been  hung  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  hanger, 


58  SILAS    MANNER. 

appareutlj  to  prevent  the  roasting  from  proceeding 
too  rapidly  daring  the  owner's  absence.  -  The  old^star- 
ing  simpleton  had  hot  meat  for  his  supper,  then  ? 
thought  Diinstan.  People  had  always  said  he  lived 
dii  mouldy  bread,  on  purpose  to  check  his  appetite. 
But  where  could  he  be  at"  this  time,  and  on  such  an 
evening,  leaving  his  supper  in  this  stage  of  prepara- 
tion, aild  his  door  unfastened  ?  Dunstan's  ovvn  recent 
difficulfy  in  making  his  way  suggested  to  him  that 
the  weaver  had  perhaps  gone  outside  his  cottage  to 
fetch  in  fuel,  or  for  some  such  brief  purpose,  and  had 
shpped  into  the  Stone-pit.  That  was  an  interesting- 
idea  to  Dunstan,  carrying  consequences  of  entire  nov- 
elty. .  If  the  weaver  was  dead,  who  had  a  right  to  his 
money  1  Whq  would  know  where  his  money  was 
hidden?  Who  would  know  that  anybody  had  come  to 
take  it  away  ?  He  went  no  farther  into  the  subtleties 
of  evidence :  the  pressing  question,  "  Where  is  the 
money  ?"  now  took  such  entire  possession  of  him  as 
to  malve  him  quite  forget  that  the  weaver's  death  was 
not  a  certainty.  A  dull  mind,  bnce  arriving  at  an  in- 
■  ference  that  flatters  a  desire,  is  rarely  able  to  retain 
the  imptession  that  the  notion  from  wjjiich  the  infer- 
ence started  was  purely  problematic.  And  Dunstan's 
mind  was  as  dull  as  the  mind  of  a  possible  felon  usu- 
ally is.  There  were  only  three  hiding-places  where 
he  had  ever  heard  of  cottagers'  hoards  being  found : 
the  thatch,  the  bed,  and  a  hole  in  the  floor.  Manier's 
cottage  had  no  thatch  ;  and  Dunstan's  first  act,  after 
a  train  of  thought  made  rapid  by  the  stimulus  of  cu- 
pidity, was  to  go  up  to  the  bed  ;  but  while  he  did  so, 


•  SILAS    MARNER.  59 

his  eyes  travelled  eagerly  over  the  floor,  wh^  the 
bricks,  distinct  in  the  fire-light,  were  discernible  under 
the  sprinkling 'of  sand.  But  not  everywhere;  for 
there  was  one  spot,  and  one  only,  which  was  quite 
covered  with  sand,  and  snijd"  shov.-ing  the  marks»  of 
fingers  which  had  apparently  been  cai^eful  to  spread  it 
over  a  given  space.  It  was  near  the  treddles  of  the 
loom.  In  an  -instant  Dunstan  darted  to  that  spot, 
swept  away  the  sand  with  h'^-i  whip,  and,  inserting  tlie 
thin  end  of  the  hook  between  the  bricks,  found  that 
iJ^ey  were  loose.  In  haste  he  lifted  up  two  bricks, 
arid  saw  what  he  had  no  doubt  Vv'as  the  object  of  his 
search;  for  what  could  there  be  but  money  in  those 
two  leathern  bags?  And,  from  their  weight,  they 
must  be  filled  with  guineas.  Danstan  felt  round  the 
hole,  to  be  certain  that  it  held  no  more;  then  hastily  •". 
replaced  the  bricks,  and  spread  the  sand  over  them. 
Hardly  more  flian  five  minutes  had  passed  since  he 
entered  the  cottage,  but  it  seemed  to  Dunstan  like  a 
long  while;  and  though  he  was  without  any  difstiiict 
recognition  of  the  possibility  that  Marner  might'be 
alive,  and  might  re-enter  the  cottage  at  any  moment, 
he  felt  -an  undefinable  dread  laying  hold  oi?  feim,  as 
he  rose  to  his  feet  with  the  bags  in  his  hand.  He 
would  hasten  out  into  the  darkness,  arid  then  consider 
what  he  should  do  with  the  bags.  He  closed  thedoor 
behind  him  immediately^  that  he  might  shut  in  the 
stream  of  light :  a  few  steps  would  be  enough  to  carry 
him  beyond  betrayal  by  the  gleams  from  the  shutter- 
chinks  and  the  latch- hole.  The  rain  and  darkness 
had  got  thicker,  and  he  Was  glad  of  it;  though  it  was 


QQ  SILAS    MARNER.  • 

awlv^||rd  walking  with  both  hands  filled,  so  that  it 
was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  grasp  his  whip  along 
with  one  of  the  bags.  Bat  when  he  Had  gone  a  yard 
or  two,  he  might  take  his  time.  -So  he  stepped  for- 
ward into  the  darkness. 


'f 


SILAS    MARNEE,  61 


CHAPTER  V. 

When  DunstUn  Cass  turned  his  back  on  the  cot- 
tage, Silas  Marner  was  not  more  than  a  liundred  yards 
away  from  it,  plodding  along  from  the  village  with  a 
sack  thrown  round  his  shoulders  as  an  over-coat,  and 
with  a  horn  lantern  in  his  hand.  His  legs  were  wea- 
ry, but  his  mind  was  at  ease,  free  from  the  presenti- 
ment of  change.  The  sense  of  security  more  frequent- 
ly springs  from  habit  than  from  conviction,  and  for 
this  reason  it  often  subsists  after  such  a  change  in  the 
conditions  as  might  have  been  expected  to  suggest 
alarm.  The  lapse  of  time  during  which  a  given  event 
has  not  happened,  is,  m  this  logic  of  habit,  consta^^tly 
alleged  as  a  reason  why  the  event  should  never  hap- 
pen, even  when  the  lapse  of  time  is  precisely  the  add- 
ed condition  which  makes  the  event  imminent.  A 
man  will  tell  you  that  he  has  worked  in  a  mine  for 
forty  years  unhurt  by  an  accident,  as  a  reason  why 
he  should  apprehend  no  danger,  though  the  roof  is 
beginning. to  sink;  and  it  is  often  observable,  that  the 
older  a  man  gets,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  him  to  re- 
tain a  believing  conception  of  his  own  death.  This 
influence  of  habit  was  necessarily  strong  in  a  man 
whose  life  was  so  monotonous  as  Marner's-— who  saw 
no  new  people  and  heard  of  no  new  events  to  keep 
alive  in  him  the  idea  of  the  unexpected  and  the  change- 


62  SILAS    MAKNEK. 

ful:  and  it  explains,  simply  enough,  why  his  mind 
could  be  at  ease,  though  he  bad  left  his  house  and  his 
treasure,  more  defenceless  than  usual.  Silas  was  think' 
ing  with  double  complacency  of  his  supper:  first?,  be- 
cause it  would  be  hot  and  savoury;  and,  secondly, 
because.it  would  cost  him  nothing.  For  the  little  bit 
of  pork  was  a  present  from  that  excellent  housewife, 
Miss  Priscilla  Lammeter,  to  whom  he  had  this  day 
carried  home  a  handsome  piece  of  linen;  and  it  was 
only  on  occasion  of  a  present  like  this,  that  Silas  in- 
dulged himself  with  roast-meat  Supper  jvas  his  fa- 
vourite meal,  because  it  came  at  his  time  of  revelry, 
when  his  heart  warmed  over  his  gold;  whenever  he 
had  roast-raeat,  he  always  chose  to  have  it  for  supper. 
But  this  evening^  he  had  no  sooner  ingeniously  knot- 
ted his  string  fast  round  his  bit  of  pork,  twisted  the 
string  according  to  .rule  over  his  door-key,  passed  it 
through  the  handle,*  and  niade  it  fast  on  the  hangier, 
than  he,  reniembered  that  a  piece  of  very  tine  t\viue 
was  indispensable  to  his  "  setting  up "  a  new  piece  of 
work  in  his  loom  early  in  the  morning.  It  had  slip- 
ped his  memory,  because,  in  coming  from  Mr.  Lam- 
meter's,  he  had  not  had  to  pass  through  the  viUage; 
but  to  lose  time  by  going  on  errands  in  the  morning 
was  out  of  the  question.  It  was  a  nasty  fog  to  turn  out 
into,  but  there  were  things  that  Silas  loved  better  than 
his  own  comfort;  so,  drawing  his  pork  to  the  extremity 
of  the  hanger,  and  arming  himself  with  his  lantern  and 
his  old  sack,  he  set  put  on  what,  in  ordinary  weather, 
would  have  been  a  twenty  minutes'  errand.  He  could 
not  have  locked  his  door  without  undoing  his  Well- 


SILAS    MAKNEK,  63 

knotted  string  and  retarding  bis  sapper;  it  was  not 
worth  bis  while  to  make-  that  sacrifice.  What  thief 
would  find  his  way  to  the  Stone-pits  on  such- a  night 
as  this?  and  why  should  he  come  on  this  particular 
night,  when  he  had"  never  come  through  allthe-twelve 
years  before?  These  questions  were  not  distinctly 
present  in  Silas's  mind;  they  merely  serve  to  repre- 
sent the  vaguely-felt  foundation  of  his  freedom  from 
anxiety. 

He  reached  his  door  in  much  satisfaction  that  his 
errand  was  done:  he  opened  it,  and  to  his  short-sight- 
ed' eyes  everything  remained  as  he  had  left  it  except 
that  the  fire  sent  out  a  welcome  increase  of  heat.  He 
trod  about  the  Hoor  while  putting  by  his  lantern  and 
throwing  aside  his  hat  and  sack,  so  as  to  merge  the 
marks  of  Dunstan's  feet  on  on  the  sand  in  the  marks 
of  his  own  nailed  boots.  Then  he  moved  his  pork  near- 
er to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  to  the  agreeable  business 
of  tending  the  meat  and  warming  himself  at  the  same 
time. 

Any  one  wlio  bad  looked  at  him  as  the  red  light 
shone  upon  his  pale  face,  strange  straining  eyes,  and 
meagre  form,  would  perhaps  have  understood  the 
mixture  of  contemptuous  pity,  dread,  and  suspicion 
with  which  he, was  regarded  by  his  neighbours  in 
Ravcloe.  Yet  few  men  could  be  more  harmless  than 
poor  Marner.  In  his  truthful  simple  soul,  not  even 
the  growing  greed  and  worship  of  gold  could  beget 
any  vice  directly  injurious  ^to  others.  'The  light  of 
his  faith  quite  put  out,  and  his  affections  made  deso- 
late, he  had  clung  with  all  the  force  of  his  nature  to 


64  SILAS    MAKNER. 

his  work  and  his  money;  and  like  all  objects  to  which 
a  man  devotes  himself,- they  bad  fashioned  him  into 
correspondence  with  themselves.  His  loom,  as  he 
wrought  in  it  without  ceasing,  had  in  its  turn  wrought 
on  him,  and  confirmed  more  and  more  the  monotonous 
craving  for  its  monotonous  response.  His  gold,  as  he 
hung  over  it  and  saw  -it  grow,  gathered  his  power  of' 
loving  together  into  a  hard  isolation  like  its  own. 

As  soon  as  he  was  warm  he  began  to  thiak  it  would 
.be  a  long  while  to  wait  till  after  supper  before  he  drew 
out  his  guineas,  and  it  would  be  pleasrfnt  to  see  them 
on  the  table  before  him  as  he  ate  his  unwonted  feast. 
For  joy  is  the  best  of  wine,  and  Silas's  guineas  were  a 
golden  wine  of  that  sort. 

He  rose  and  placed  his  candle  unsuspectingly  on 
the  floor  near  his  loom,  swept  away  the  sand  without 
noticing  any  change,  and  removed  the  bricks.  The 
sight  of  the  empty  bole  made  his  heart  leap  violently, 
but  the  belief  that  his  gold  was  gone  could  not  come 
at  once — only  terror,  and  the  eager  effort  to  put  an 
end  to  the  terror.  He  passed  his  trembling  hand  all 
about  the  hole,  trying  to  think  it  possible  that  his 
eyes  had  deceived  him;  then  he  held  the  candle  in 
the  hole  and  examined  it  curipusly,  trembling  more 
and  more.  At  last  he  shook  so  A'iolently  that  he  let 
fall  the  candle,  and  lifted  his  hands  to  his*  head,  try- 
ing to  steady  himself,  that  he  might  think.  Had  he 
put  his  gold  somewhere  else,  by  a  sudden  resolution 
last  night,  aiid  then  forgotten  it  ?  A  man  falling  into 
dark  water  seeks  a  momentary  footing  eren  on  shding 
stones;  and  Silas,  by  acting  as  if  he  believed  in  false 


61  LAS    MAENEiv.  0.> 

hopes,  wartjed  off  the  moment  ofnlespair.  He  search- 
ed in.  every  corner,  he  turned  his  bed  over,  and  shook 
it,  and  kneaded  it;  he  looked  in  iiis  brick  oven  whore, 
lie  laid  his  sticks.  When  there ^^as  no  other  place  to 
be  searched,  he  kneeled  down  again  and  felt  once  more 
all  round  the  hole.  There  was  no  untried  refuge  left 
for  a  moment's  shelter  trom  the  terrible  truth. 

Yes,  there  was  a'sort  of  refuge  which  always  comes, 
with  the  prostration  of  thought  under  an  oveu{)Ower- 
ing  passion:  it  was  that  expectation  of  impossibilities, 
that  belief  in  'contradictory  images,  which  is  still  dis- 
tinct from  madness,  because  it  is  capable  of  being  dis- 
sipated by  the  externa,l  fact.  Silas  got  up  from  his 
knees  trembling,  and  lool^ed  round  at  the  tablei:  didn't 
the  gold  lie  there  after  all  1  The  table  was  bare. 
.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  behind  him — looked  all 
round  his  dwelling,  seemed  to  strain  his  brown  eyes 
after  .some  possible  appearance  of  the  bags,  where  he 
had  already  sought  them  in  vain.  He  could  see  every 
object  in  his  cott^^ge — and  his  gold  was  jnot  there. 

Again  he  put  his  trembling  hands  to  his  head,  and 
gave  a  wild  ringing  scream,  the  cry  of  desolation. 
For  a  few  moments  after,  he  stood  motionless ;  but 
the  cry  had  relieved  him  from  the  first  maddening 
pressure  of  the  truth.  He  turned,  and  tottered  to- 
wards his  loom,  and  got  into  the  seat  where  he  work- 
ed, instinctively  seeking  this  as  the  strongest  assur- 
ance of  reality. 

And  now  that  all  the  false  hopes  hadvanished,  and 
the  first  shock  of  certainty  was  past,  the  idea  of  a  thief 
began  to  preiscnt  itself,  and  he  entertained  it  eagerly, 


G6  SILAS    MAljJ-aiK. 

because  a  thief  might' be  caught  and  made  to  restore 
the  gold.  -  The  thoiiglit  brought 'some  new  strength 
with  it,  and  he  started  Trom  his  loom  to  the  door.  As 
he  opened  it  the  rain  beat-  in  upon-  hin\,  for  it  was  fall- 
ing more  and  more" heavily.  There  were  no  footsteps 
to  be  tracked  on  such 'a  night— footsteps?  Wl'^cn 
had  the  thief  come?  During  Silas's  absence  in  the 
daytime  the  door  had  been  locked,*and  there  had  been 
no  marks  •of  any  inroad  oh  his  return  by  daylight. 
And  in  the  evening,  too,  he  said  to  himself,  every- 
thing was  the  same  as  when  he  had  left'it.  The  sand' 
and  bricks  looked  as  if  they  had  not 'been  m9ved. 
Was  it  a  thief  who  had  taken  the  bags  ?  or  was  it  a 
cruel  power  that  no  hands  could  reach,  which  had  de- 
lighted in  making  him  a  second  time  desolate?  He 
shrank  from'  this  vaguer  dread,  and  fixed  his  mind  with 
struggling  effort  on  the  robber  with  hands,  who  could 
be  reached  by  hands;  His  thoughts  glanced  at  all  the 
neighbours  who  had' made  any  remarks,  or  asked  any 
questions  which  he  might  now  regard'  as  a  ground  of 
suspicion".  There  v(^as  Jem' Rodney,  a  known  poach- 
er, and  otherwise  disreputable:  he  had  often  met  Mar- 
ner  in  his  journeys  across  the  fields,  and  had  said 
something  jestingly  about  the  weaver's  money;  nay, 
he  had  once  irritated  Marner,  by  lingering  at  the  fire 
when  he  called  to  light  his  pipe,  instead  of  going 
about  his  business.  Jem  Rodney  was  the  man-r— there 
was  ease  in  the  thought. '  Jem  could  be  found  and 
made  to  restore  the  money  :  Marner  'did  not  want  to, 
punish  him,  but  only  to  get  back  his  gold  which  had 
gone'  frpm  him,  and  left  liis  soul  like  a  forlorn  travel- 


^ILAS    MARNER.  Gw 

ler  on  an  luiknown  desert.  .  The  robber  must  be  laid- 
hold  of.  Manier's  ideas  of  legal  authority  wore  fon-. 
fused,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  go  and  proclaim  liis 
loss;  and  the  great  people' in , the  village — the  clergy- 
man, the  constable,  and  Squire  Cass— ^would  make 
Jem  Rodney,  or  .somebody  else,"  deliver  up  the  stolen 
money.  He  rusTied  out  in  the  rain  under  the  stimn- 
lus,  of  this  hope,  forgettirg  <o  cover  his  head,  not 
caring  to  fasten  his  door;  for  he,felt  as  if  he*had  noth- 
ing left  .to  lose.  He  ran  sWiftly  till  \vant  of  breath 
compelled  him  to  slacken  his  pace  as  he  was  entering 
the  village  at  the  fuming  close  to  the  Rainbow. 

The  Rainbow,  in  Marner  s  view,  was  a  place  of  lux- 
urious resort  for  rich  and  stout  husbands,  whose  wives 
had  superfluous  stores  of  linen;  it  .was  the  place  where 
he  was  likely  to  find  the  powers  and  dignities  of  Rav- 
eloe,  and  where  he  could  most  speedily  make  his  loss 
public.  He  lifted  the  latch,  and  turned  into  the  bright 
bar  or  kitchen  on  the  right  hand,  where  the  less  lofty 
customers  of  the  house  were  in  the  habit  of  assem-^ 
bling,  the  parlour  on  the  left  being  reserved  for  the 
more  select  society  in  which  Squire  Cass  frequently 
enjoyed  the  double  pleasure  of  conviviality  and  con- 
descension. ■'  But  the  parlour  was  dark  to-night,  the 
chief  personages  who  ornamented  its  circle  being  a-ll 
at  Mrs.  Osgood'^birthday  dance,  as  Godfrey  Cass  was* 
And  in  conseqrflice  of  this,  the  party  on  the  liigh- 
screened  seatsjn  the  kitchen  was  more  numerous  than 
usual;  several  personages,  who  would  otherwise  have 
been  admitted  into  the  parlour  and  enlarged  the  oppor-  ■ 
tunity  of  hectoring  and  eoadescension  for  their  bet- 


G8  SILAS    MARNER^  '    .  « 

ters,  being  content  this  evening  tp  V3,ry  th^eir  enjoy- 
ment by,  taking  their  spirits-and- water  where  they 
could  themselves  hector  and  conclescend  in  company 
that  called  for  beer 


CHAPTER  A'l. 

The  conversation,  which  was  at  a  high  pitch  of  ani- 
mation when  Silas  approached  the  door  of  the  Rain- 
bow, had,  as  usual',  Wken  slow^  and  intermittent  when 
the  company  first  assembled,  The  pipes  ,began  to  be 
piiffed  in  a  silence  which  had  an  air  of  severity;  the 
more  important  customers,  who  drank  spirits  and  sat 
nearest  the  fire,  staring  at  each  other  as  if  a  bet  were 
depending  on  the  first  mart  who  winked ;  while  the 
beer-drinkers,  chiefly  men  in  fustian  jackets  and  smock- 
frocks,  kept  their  eyelids  down  and  rubbed  their  hands 
across  their  mouths,  as  if  their  draughts  of  beer  were 
a  funeral  duty  attended  with  embarrassing  sadness. 
At  last,  Mr.  Snell^  the  landlord,  a  man  of  a  neutral  dis- 
position, accustomed  to  stand  aloof  from  human  dif- 
ferences as  those  of  beings  who  were  all  alike  in  need 
of  liquor,  broke  silence,  by  saying  in  a  doubtful  tone' 
to  his.  cousin  the  butcher — 

"Some  folks  'ud  say  that  was  a  fine  beast  you  druv 
in  yesterday^  Bob  ?" 

The  butcher,  a  jolly,  smiling,  red-haired  man,  was 
not  disposed  to  answer  raishly.  He  ^gave  a  few  puffs 
before  he  sp^t  and  replied,  "And  they, wouldn't  be 
fur  wrong,  John." 

After  this  feeble  delusive  thaw,  the  silence  set  in  as 
severely  as  before.  .        , 

"Was  it  a  red  Durham?"  said  the  farrier,  taking  up 


70  •  ,         SILAfe.  MAENER. 

the  thread  of  discourse;  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  min- 
utes.' 

'  The  farrier  looked  at  the  landlord,  and  the  landlord 
lool^ed  at  the  butcher,  as  the  person  who  must  take' 
the  resiJbnsibility  of- answering 

'Ked  it  was,"  said  the  butcher,  in  his  good-humour- 
.ed  huGky  treble — ^^"and  a  Durham  it  was.'' 

"Then  you  needn't  tell  7ne  vi^o  you  bought  it  of,"' 
said' the  farrier,  looking  round  with  some  triumph;.'  "I 
know  who  it  is  has  got  the  red  Durhams  o'  this  coun- 
tfy-side.  And  she'd  a  white  star  on  her  Ijrow,  I'll  bef 
a  penny  r'  The  farrier' leaned  forward  with  his  hands 
on  his  knees  ,as„  ho  put  this  question,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled  knowingly. 

"Well;  yes — she  might,"  said  the  butcher,  slowly, 
considering  that  he  was  giving  a  decided  affirmative: 
"I  don't  say  contrairy." 

"I  knew  that  very  well,  said  the  farrier,  throwing 
himself  backward  again,  and  speak.ing  defiantly;  **'if 
/don't  know  Mr.  Lammeter's  cows,  1  sliould  like  to 
know  who  does— that's  all.  And  as  for  the  coW  you've 
bought,  bargain  or  no  bargain,  I've  been  at  the  drench- 
ing of  her — contradick  me  who  will." 

The  farrier  looked  fierce,  and  the  mild  butcher's 
conversatipnal  spirit  was  roused  a  little. 

"I'm' not  for  cantradicking  no  nian,"  he  said;  "I'm 
for  peace  and  quietness.  Some  are  for  cutting  long 
ribs — I'm  for  cutting  'em  short,  myself;  but  /  don't 
quarrel  with  'em.  All  I  say  is,  it's  a  lovely  carkiss — 
and  anybody  as  was  reasonable,  it  'ud  bring  tears  into 
their  eyes  to  look  at  it." 


SILAS    MARNEIJ.  71 

"AVell,  it's  the  cow  as  I  drench^,  whatever  it  fs," 
•pursued  the  farrier,  angrily;  "and  it  was  Mr.  Lam- 
meter's  cow,  else  you  told  a  lie  wberi  you  said  it  was 
M  red  Durham." 

."I  tell  no  lies,"  said  the  hiitcher,  with  the  same.'mlld 
huskiuess  as  before;  "and  1  contradick  none — not  if 
a  man  was  to  swear,  himself  black:  he's  no  meat  o' 
mine,  nor  .nbne,o':t|iy  bargains.  All  I  say  is,  it's  a 
lovely  carkiss.  And  what  I  :-•"•,  ^"^^  stick 'to;  but  I'll 
quarrel  wi'  no  man." 

"No,"  said  the  farrier,:  with  bi4;ter  sarcasm,  lookificr 
at  the  company  generally;  "and  p'rhaps  you  aren't 
pig-headed;  and.  p'rhaps  you  didn't  say  tile  cow  was 
a  red  Durhajn:  and  p'rhaps  you  didn't  say  she'd  got 
a  star  on  her  brow — stick  to  that,  now  you're  at  it." 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord,  "let  the  cow  alone. 
The  truth  lies  atween  you:  you're  both  right  and  both 
wrong,  as  I  allays  say.  And  as  for  the  tow's  being 
Mr.  Lammeter's,  I  say  nothing  to  that;  but' this  I  say, 
as  the  Rainbow's  the  Eainbow.  And  for  the  matter 
o'  that,  if  the  talk  is  to  be  o'  the  Lammeters,  yov^  know 
the  most  upo'  that  .head,  eh,  Mr.  Macey?  You  re- 
member-when first  Mr.  Lammeter's  father  come  into 
these  parts,  and  took  the  Warrens?'' 

Ilx.  Macey,  tailor  and  parish-clerk,  the  latter  jof 
which  functions  rheumatism  had  of  late  obliged  him 
to  share  with  a  small- featured  young  man  who  sat 
opposite  him,  held  his  white  head  on  one  side,  and 
twirled  his  thumbs  with  an  air  of  complacency,  slight- 
ly, seasoned  with  criticism.  He  smiled  pityingly,  in 
answer  to  the  landlord's  appeal,  and  said — 


72  SILAS    MARNER. 

'''Ay,ay;  l"  Hnp\v,  I 'know;  but  I  let  other  folks 
talk.  I've  laid  by  now,  and  gev  up  to  the  young  uns.' 
Ask*  "them  as  have  been  to  school  at  Taiiey :  tiie.y've 
learnt  pernounclng;  that's  conic  up  since  my  day.' 

"If  you're  pointing  at  me,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  the. 
depnty-clerk,  with  an  air  of  anxious  propriety,  "I'm 
nowise  a  man  to  sp<3ak  out  of  my  place.  x\s  the 
psaiai  "says—  ■  ,     ■  f 

'  T  know  what's  rii^lit,  nor  only  so, 
T;ut  also  practice  what  I  kno.w,'" 

./'Well,  then,  I  wish  you'd  "keep  hold  o'  tjie  tune 
when  it's  set  for  you;  if  you're  for  prac^wing,  I  wish 
you  d  prac^we  that,"  ,said  a  large  jocose-looking  man, 
an  excellent  wheelwright  in  his  w6ek-day  capacity, 
but  on  Sundays  leader  of  the  choir.  He  winked,  as 
he  spoke,  at  two  of  the  company,  who  were  known" 
.officially  as  "  the  bassoon  "  and ,"  the  key-bugle,''  in 
the  confidence  that  he  .was  expressing  the  sense  of  the 
musical  profession  in  Raveloe. 

Mr.  Tookey;  the  deputy-clerk,  who  shared  the  un- 
popularity common  to  deputies,  turued  very  red,  but. 
replied,  with  careful  moderation— "  Mr.  Winthrop,  if 
you'll  bring  me  any  proof  as  I'm  in  the  wrong,.  I'm 
not  the  man  to  say  I  won't  alter.  But  there's  jjeople 
set  up  their,  own  ears  for  a  standard,  and  expect  the 
whole  choir  to  follow  'em.  There  may  be  two  opin- 
ions, I  hope." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  who  felt  very  well  satis- 
fied with  this  attack'on  .youthful  presumption  :  "you're 
right  there,  Tookey ;  therfe^s  allays  two 'pinions;  there's 
.the  'pinion  a  man  has  of.himsen,  and  there's  the  'pin- 


^ILA;-    MAKa;  ,  73 

ion  other  folks  have  on  him.  Thcre'd  be  two  'pinions 
about  a  cracked  bell,  if  the  bell  could  hear,  its'  i;' 
-  "Vfell,  Mr.  Macey,'"' said  poor  Tookey, serious  ;; irudst 
the  general  laughter,  "I  undertook  to  partially  .(ill  up 
the  office  of  parish-clork  by  Mr.  Crackent^iorp's  desire, 
whenever  your  inhnnities  ghouki  make  y6u  unfitting ; 
and  it'sr  (jne  of  the  rights  thereof  to  ^ingin  the  choir — 
else  why  have  you  done  the  same  yourself?" 

"Ah*!  but  the  old  gentleman  and  you  are  two 
folks,",  said  Ben  Winthrop.  "The  old  gentleman's 
got  a  gift.  Wliy,  the  Squire  used  to  invite  him  to 
take  a  glass,  only  to  hear  him  sing  the  *Red  Rovierj' 
did'nt  he,  Mr.  Maccy  ?  It's  a  nat'ral  gift.  There^s  my 
little  lad  Aaron,  he's  got  a  gift — he  can  sing  a  triine  off 
straight,  like  a  throstle.  But  as  for  you,  Master  Took- 
ey,  you'd  better  stick  to  your  'Aniens:'  your  voice  is 
well  enough  when  you  keep  it  up  in  your  nose.  It's 
your  inside  as  isn't  right  made  for  m\isic:  its  no  bet- 
ter nor  a  hollow  stalk." 

This  kiild  of  unflinching  frankness  was  the  most 
piquant  form  of  joke  to  the  company  at  the  Rainbow, 
uid  Ben  Winthrop's  insult  was  felt  by  everybody  to 
have  capped  Mr.  Macey's  epigram. 

"I  see  what  it  is  plain  enough,"  said  Mr.  Tookey, 
unable  to  keep  cool  any  longer.  "There's  a  consper- 
acy  to  turn  me  out  o'  the  choir,  as  I  shouldn't  share 
the  Christmas  money — that's  where  it  is.  But  I  shall 
speak  to  Mr.  Oraekenthorp;  I'll  not  be  put  upon  by 
no  man." 

"Nay,  nay,  Tookey,"  said  Ben  Winthrop.  "We'll 
pay  you  your  share  to  keep  out  of  it — that's  what) 


74  ,  SII.AS    MAKNER. 

'■•-e'll- do.  There's  things  folks ''ud  pay  .to  be- rid  on, 
besides  varmin." 

".Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord,  vv'ho  fell  ii.c.  pay- 
ing people  for  their  absence  was' a  principle -d'^^ngerous 
to  society;' '"a joke's  a  jbi^e.  We're  all  good  friends 
here,  I  hope.  We  must  give  and  take.  You're  both 
right  and  you're  both  wrong,  as  I  say.  I  agree  wi' 
Mr.  Macey  here,  as  there's  two  opinions;  and  if  mine 
was  asked,  I  should  say  they're  both  right.  Tookey's 
right  and  Winthrop's  right,  and,  they've  only  .got- to 
split  the  diiFerence  and  make  themselves  even." 

The  farrier  was  puffing  his  pipe  rather  fiercely,  in 
some  contempt  at  this  trivial  discussion.  He  had  no 
ear  for  music  himself,  and  never  went  to  church,,  as 
being  of  the -medical  profession,  and  likely  to  be  in  re- 
quisition ,for  delicate  covv^s.  But  the  butcher,  having 
music  in  his  soul,  had  listened  with  a  divided  desire  for 
Tookey's  defeat,  and  for  the  preservation  of  the  peace. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said",  following  up  the  landlord's 
conciliatory  view,  "we're  fond  of  our  old  clerk;  it's 
nat'ral,  and  'him  used  to  be  such  a  singer,  and  got  a 
brother  as  is  known  for  the  first  fiddler  in  this  coun- 
try-side. Eh,  it's  a  pity  but  what  Solomon  lived  in 
our  village,  and  could  give  us  a  tune  when  he  liked, 
eh,  Mr.  Macey?  I'd  keep  him  in  live):  and  liglits  for 
nothing — ;that  I  would." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  the  height  of  compla- 
cency; "our  family's  been  known  for  musicianers  as 
far  back  as  anybody  can  tell.  But  them  things  are 
dying  out,  as  I  tell  Solomon  every  tirne  he  comes 
round;  there's  no  voices  like  what  there  used  to  loe. 


SILAS    SlARNER.  75 

and  there's 'nobody  remembers  what  we  remember,  if 
it  isn't  the  old  crows." 

"Ay',  fyou  remember  when  first  Mr.  Lammeter's  fa- 
ther came  into  these  parts,  don't  you,  Mr.  Macey  I"  said 
the  landlord. 

"I  should  think  I  did,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had 
now  gone  through  that  complimentary  process  neces- 
sary to  bring  him  ujp  to  the  point  of  narration,  "and 
a  line  old  gentleman  he  was— as  line,  and  finer  nor 
the  Mr.  Lammeter  as  now  is.  He  came  from. a  bit 
north'ard^  so  far  as  I  could  ever  make  out.  But 
there's  nobody  rightly  knows  about  those  parts:  only 
it  couldn't  bfe  far  north'ard,  nor  much  different  from 
this  country,  for  he  bit)ught  a  fine  breed  o*  sheep  with 
him,  so  there  must  be  pastures  there,  and  everything 
reasonable.  We  heard  tell  as  he'd  sold  his  own  land 
to  come  and  take  the'  Warrens,  and  that  seemed  odd 
for  a  man  as  had  land  of  his  own,  to  come  and  rent  a 
farm  in  a  strange  place.  But  they  said  it  was  along 
of  his  wife's  dying ;  though  there's  reasons  in  tilings 
as  nobody  knows  on — that's  pretty  much  what  I've 
made  out ;  though  some  folks  are  so  wise,  they^ll  find 
•you  fifty  reasons  straight  off,  and  all  the  while  the  real 
reason's  winking  at  'em  in  the  corner,  and  they  niver 
see't.  Howsomever,  it  was  soon  seen  as  we'd  got  a 
ne>v  parish'ner  as  know'd  the  rights  and  customs  o' 
things,  and  kep  a  good  house,  and  was  well  looked  on 
by  everybody.  And  the  young  man — that's  the  Mr. 
Lammeter  as  now  is,  for  he'd  niver  a  sister — soon  be- 
gun to  court  Miss  Osgood,  that's  th^  sister  o'  the  Mr. 
Osgood  as  now  is,  and  a  fine  handsome  lass  she  was—' 


76  S^ILAS    MARNEK. 

ch,  you  can't  think — they  pretend,  this  ypung  lass  is 
like' her,  but  Ihat's  the  way: wi'  jl'eople'as  don't  know 
whiat  come  before  'errir;  /  should  know,  for  I. helped 
the  old  rector,  Mr.  Dr.umlow  as.was,  I  helped  hii'n 
marry  'em."     ".  '        • 

.  Here  Mr.  Macey  paused  ; .  he  always  gave  his  >nar- 
rative  in  instalments,  expecting  to  be  questioned  ac- 
cording to  precedent. 

"Ay,  and  a  partic'lar  (hiug  happciied,  didn't  it,  Mr. 
Macey,-  so  as  you  were  likely  to  rcmernber  that  mar- 
riage ?"  said  the  landlord,  in  a  congratulatory  ton 

"  I  should  think  there  did — a  very  partic'ler  thing," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  sideways,  "l^or  Mr.  Drum- 
low — poor  old  gentleman,  I  was  fond  on  him,  though, 
he'd  got  a  bit  confused. in  his  head,  what  wi'  age  and 
wi'  taking'a:  dro]?  o'  summat  warm  when  the  service 
come  of  a  cold  morning.  And  young  Mr.  Lanimetcr, 
he'd  have  no  way  but  he  must  be  married  in  Janiwary, 
which,  to  be  sure,  's  a  unreasonable  time  to  be  married 
in,  for  it  isn't  like  a  christening  or  a  burying,  as  you 
can't  help ;  and  so  Mr.  Drumlow— 'poor  old  gentle- 
man, I  was  fond  on  him — but  when  he  come  to  put 
the  questions,  he  put  'em  by  the  rule  o'  contrairy,  like, 
arid  he-  says,  'Vt^ilt  thou 'have  this^an  to  thy  wedded 
wife  V  says  he,  and  then  he  says,  'Wilt  thou  hfave  this 
woman  to  thy  wedded  husband?'  says  he.  But  the 
partic'larest  thing  of  all  is,  as  nol^ody  took  any  notice 
on  it  but  me,  and  they  answered  straight  off  'yes,'  like 
as  if  it  had, been  me  saying  'Amen'  i'  the  right  place, 
without  listening  to  what  went  before." 

"But  you  knew  what  was  going  on  well  enough, 


81LAS    JMAKNEK.  77 

didn't  3'qu,.lvlr,  Macey?     You  were  live  enougb,  eh?'' 
said  the  butcher.  .  •         # 

"Lor  bless'  you  I''  said  Mr.  Maccy,  pausing,   and 
smiling  in  pity  at  the  impotence  of  his  hearers'  imag- 
ination— ^"v/hy,  I  was  all  of. a  tremble:  it  was  as  it" 
I'd  been  a  coat  pulled  by  the  two  tails,  hke;  fori 
couldn't  stop  the  parson,  I  couldn't  talvc  upon  me  to 
do  that;  and  yet  I  said  to  myself,  I  says,  'Suppose 
they  shouldn't]  be  fast  married,  'cause  the  words  arc 
contrairy  V  and  my  head  went  working  like  a  mill, 
for  I  was  allays  uncommon  for  turning  things  over 
and  seeing  all  round  'cm;  ahd  I' says  to  myself,  'Is't 
the  meanin'.  or  the  words  as  makes  folks  fast  i'  wed- 
lock V     For  the  parson  meant  right,  and  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  meant  right.     But  then,  when  I  come  to 
think  oh  it,  meanin'  goes  but  a  little  way  i'  most  things 
for  you  may  mean  to  stick  things  together  and  your 
,glue  may  be  bad,  and  Ihen  where  are  you?     And  £o 
I  says  to  mys^u,  'It  isn't  the  meanin',  it's  the  glue.' 
And  I  was  worreted  as  if  I'd  got  three  bells  to  pull  at 
once,  when  we  got  into  the  vestry,  and  they  begun  to 
'  '  sign  their  namet;.     But  where's  the  use  o'  talking? — 
you  can't  think  what  goes  on  in  a  'cute  man's  inside." 
"But  you  held  in  for  all  that,  didn't  you,  Mr.  Ma- 
cey?"  said  the  landlord.  , 

'  "Ay,  I  held  in  tight  till  I  was  by  mysen  wi!  Mr. 
Drumlow,  and  then  I  out  wi'  everything,  but  respect- 
ful, as  I  allays  did.  And  he  made  light  on  it,  and  he 
says,  '  Pooh,  pooh,  M^cey,  make  yourself  easy,'  he 
says,  'it's  neither  the  meaning  nor  thtj  words — it's  the 
xegestev  does  it — that's  the  glue.'     So  you  see  he  set- 


78  vSILAS    MARNEE. 

tied  it  easy;  for  parsons  and  doctors  know-everytbing 
by  heart,  like,  so  as  they  aren't  worr.eted  wi'  thinking 
what's  the  rights  and  wrongs  o'  things,  as  111  been 
many  and  many 's  the  time.  And  sure  enough  the 
wedding  turned  out  all  right,  on'y  poor  Mrs.  Lam- 
meter — tliat's  Miss  Osgood  as  was — died  afore  the. 
lasses  were  growed  up;  but  for  prosperity  and  every- 
thing respectable,  there's  no  family  more  looked  on.'' 

Every  one  of  M.r.  Macey's  audience  had  heard  this 
story  many  times,  but  it  was  listened  to  as  if  it  had 
been  a  favorite  tune,  and  at  certain  points  the  puff- 
ing of  the  pipes  was  momentarily  suspended,  that  the 
listeners  might  give  their  whole  minds  to  the  expected 
words.  .  But  there  was  no  more  to  come ;  and  Mr. 
Snell,  the  landlord,  duly  put  the  leading  question. 

"Why,  old  Mr.  Lammeter  had  a  pretty  fortin,  didn't 
they  say,  when  he  come  into  thqse  .parts?" 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Macey;  " but  I  daresay  it's 
as  much  as  this  Mr.  Laminetor's  done  to  keep  it  whole. 
For  there  was  allays  a  talk  as  nobody  could  get  rich 
on  the  Warrens:  though  he  holds  it  cheap,  for  it's 
what  they  call  Charity  Land." 

"Ay,  and  there's  few  folks  know  so  well  as  you 
how  it  came  to  be  Charity  Land,  eh,  Mr.  Macey?"  said 
the  butcher.  .  , 

"How  should  they?"  said  the  old  clprk,  uith  some 
contempt.  "Why,  ray  grandfather  made  the  grooms' 
iivery  for  that  Mr.  Cliff  as  came  and  built  the  big  sta- ' 
bles  at  the  Warrens.  Why,  they're  stables  four  times 
as  big  as  Squire  Cass's,  for  he  thought  o'  nothing  but 
bosses  and  hunting,  Cliff  didn't — a   Lunnon  tailor, 


SILAS    MAUNEK.  ^  71) 

sorno  folks  said,  as  had  gone  mad  wi'  cheating.  For 
he  couldn't  ride;  lor  bless  yoii!  they,  said  he'd  got  no* 
more  grip  o'  the  hoss  than  if  his  legs  had  be^n  cross 
sticks:  my  grandfather  heard  old  Squire  Cass  say  so 
many^'and  many  a  time.  Put  ride  he  would!  as  if  old 
Harry  had  been  a-driving  him;  and  heVl  a  son,  a  lad 
o'  sixteen;  and  nothing  would  his  father  have  him  do, 
but  he  must  ride  and  ride — though  the  lad  was  fright- 
ed, they  said.  And  it  was  a  comraon  saying  as  the  fa- 
ther wanted  to  lide  the  tailor  out  o'  the  lad,  and  make 
a  gentleman  on  him — not  but  what  I'm, a  tailor  my- 
self, but  in  respect  as  God  made  me  such,  I'm  proud 
on  it,  for  'Macey,  tailor,'  's  been  wrote  up  over  our 
door  since  afore  the  Queen's  heads  went  out  on  the 
shillings.  But  Cliff,  he  was  ashamed  o'  being  called  a 
tailor,  and  he  was  sore  vexed  as  his  riding  was  laugh- 
ed at,  and  nobody  o'  the  gentlefolks  hereabout  could 
abide  him.  Howsomever,  the  poor  lad  got  sickly  and 
died,  and  the  father  did 'nt  Jive  long  after  him,  for  he 
got  queerer  nor  ever,  and  they  said  he  lised  to  go  out 
i'  the  dead  o'  the  night,  wi'  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  to 
the .  stables,  and  set  a  lot  o'  hghts  burning,  for  he  got 
as  he  couldn't  sleep ;  and  there  he'd  stand,  cracking 
his  whip  and  looking  at  his  bosses;  and  they  said  it 
was  a  mercy  as  the  stables  didn't  get  burnt  down  wi' 
tlie  poor  dumb  creaturs  in  'em-  But  at  last  he  died 
raving,  and  they  found  as  he'd  left  all  his  property, 
Warrens  and  all,  to  a  Lunnon  Charity,  and  that's  how 
the  Warrens  come  to  be  Charity  land;  though,  as  for 
the  stables,  Mr.  Larameter  never  uses  'em — ^they're  out 
o"  all  charictei'i — lor  bless  you!  if  you  was  to  set  the 


80  ,  SILAS    MAKNEK. 

doors, a-banging  in  'em,  it  'ud  sound  like  tlnmder  bdi" 
o'er  the  parish." 

"Ay,  but  there's  more  going  on  in  the  stables  than 
what  folks  se6  by  daylight,  eh,  Mr.  Macey?"  said  the 
landlord.  '    , 

"Ay,  ay ;  go  that  way  of  a  dark  ni.f{ht,  that's  all,^' 
said  Mr.  Macey,  winking  mysteriously,  "and  then 
make  believe,  if  you.  like,  rs  you  didn't  see  light's  i' 
the  stables,  nor  hear  the  stamping  o'  the  bosses,  nor 
the  cracking  o'  the  whips,  and  howling,  too,  if  it's 
tow'rt  daybreak.  'Cliirs  Holiday'  has  been  the  name 
of  it  ever  sin'  I  were  a  boy;  that's  to  say,  some  said 
as  it  was  the  hpliday  Old  Harry  gev  him  from  roast- 
ing, like.  That's  what  my  father  told  me,  and  he  was 
a  reasonable  man,  though  there's  folks  nowadays  know 
what  happened  afore  thtsy  were  born  better  nor  they 
know  their  own  business." 

"What  do  you  say  to  that,  eh,  Dowlas?"  said  the 
landlord,  turning  to  the  farrier,  who  was  swelling  with 
impatience  for  his  cue.  "There's  a' nut  "for  you  to 
crack." 

Mr.  Dowlas  was  the  negative  spirit  in  the  company, 
arid  was  proud  of  his  position. 

"Say?  I  say  what  a  man  should  say  as  doesn't  shut 
his  eyes  to  look  at  a  finger-post  I  say,  as  I'm  ready 
to'  wager  any  man  ten  pound,  if  he'll  stand  out  w'  me 
any  dry  night  in  the  pasture  ])efore  the  Warren  sta- 
bles, as  we  shall  neither  see  lights  iior  hear  noises,  if 
ili^'iisn't  the  blowing  of  our  own  noses,  That's  what  I 
say,  and  X said  it  many  a  time;  but  there's  nobod\ 


SILAS    MAENER.  81 

'ull  ventur  a  ten-pun  note  on  their  ghos^es  as  they 
make  so  sure  of." 

"Why,  Dowlas,  that's  easy  betting,  that  is,"  said 
Ben  Winthrop.  "  You  might  as  well  bet  a  man  as 
he  wouldn't  catch  tiie  rheumatise  if  he  stood  up  to  's 
neck  in  the  pool  of  a  frosty  night.  It  'ud  be  fine  fun 
for  a  man  to  win  his  bet  as  he'd  catch  the  rheumatise. 
Folks  as  believe  in  Cliff's  Holiday  aren't  agoing  to 
ventur  near  it  for  a  matter  o'  ten  pound."    • 

"If  Master  Dowlas  wants  to  know  the  truth  on  it," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  tappincr  his 
thumbs  together,  "  he's  no  call  to  lay  any  bet-^let  him 
go  and  Stan'  by  himself — there's  nobody  'ull  hinder 
him;  and  then  he  .can  let  the  parish'ncrs  know  if 
they're  wrong." 

"Thank  you!  I'm  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  farrier, 
with  a  snort  of  scorn.  "  If  folks  are  fools,  its  no  busi- 
ness o'  mine.  /  don't- want  to  make  out  the  truth 
abbut  gho'ses :  I  know  it  a'ready.  But  I'm  not  against 
a  bet — everything  fair  and  open.  Let  any  man  bet 
me  ten  pound  as  I  shall  see  Cliff's  Holiday,  and  I'll 
go  and  stand  by  myself.  I  want  no  company.  I'd  as 
lief  do  it  as  I'd  fill  this  pipe." 

"  Ah,  but  who's  to  watch  you,  Dowlas,  and  see  you 
do  it  ?    That's  no  fair  bet,"  said  the  butcher. 

"No  fair  bet?"  replied  Mr.  Dowlas,  angrily.  "I 
should  like  to  hear  any  man  stand  up  and  say  I  want 
to  bet  unfair.  Come  now,  Master  Lundy,  I  should 
like  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"  Very  like  you  would,"  said  the  butcher.  "  But 
it's  no  business  o'  mine.    You're  none  o*  my  bargains,. 


82  ,  SlLAt;    MAl^Niii?. 

and  I  are'nt  a-going  to  try  and  'bate  your  price,  if 
anybody  'II  bid  for  you  at  your,  own  valiyingj  let  him. 
I'm  for  peace  and  quietness,  I  am." 

"Yes,  that's  wiiat  every  yapping  cur  is,  when  you 
hold  a  stick  up  at  him,"  said  the  farrien  "But  I'm 
afraid  o'  neither  man  nor  ghost,  and  I'm  ready  to  lay 
a  fair  bet — I  aren't  a  turn-tail  cr.r." 

"Ay,  but  tliere's  this  in  it,  Dowlas,"  said  the  land- 
lord, s{:/e'aking  in  a  tone  of  much  candour  and  tol- 
erance. "  Thcrp's  folks,  i'  my  opinion,  they  cryi't  see 
ghos'es,  not  if  they  stood  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff  be- 
fore 'em.  x\nd  there's  reason  i'  that.  For  there's  my 
wife,  now,  can't  smell,  not  if  she'd  the  strongest  o' 
cheese  under  her  nose*  I  never  see'd  a  ghost  myself, 
but  then  I  says  to  myself,  'Very  like  I  haven't  got 
the  smell  for  'cm.'  I  mean,  putting  a  ghost  for  a 
smell,  or  else  contrairiw^ays.  And  so,  I'm  for  holding" 
with  both  sides;  for,  as' I  say,  the  truth  lies  between 
:em.  And  if  Dowlas  was  to  go  and  stand,  and  say 
he'd  tiever  seen  a  wink  o'  Cliff's  Holiday  all  the  night 
•through,  I'd  back  him;  and  if  anybody  said  as  CliiT's 
Holiday  was  certain  sure,  for  all  that,  I'd  back  him 
too.     For  the  smell's  what  I  go  by."  • 

The  landlord's  analogical  argument  Mas  not  well 
vecJeived  by  the  farrier — a  man  intensely  opposed  to 
compromise. 

"Tut,  tut,"  he  said,  setting  down  his  glass  with  re- 
freshed irritation;  "what's  the  smell  got  to  do  with 
it  ?  Did  ever  a  ghost  give  a  man  a  black  eye  ?  That's 
what  I  should  like  to  know\  If  ghos'es  want  me  to 
believe  in  'em,  let  ^em  leave  off  skulking  i'  the  dark 


'  SILAS    MAIiNKK.  83 

and  i'  lone  places — let  'em  come  where  there's  com- 
pany and  candles." 

"As  if ghos'cs  'ud  w.int  to  be  believed  in  by  rmj- 
hody  so  ignirant!"  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  deep  disgust  at 
the  farrier's  crass  incompetence  to  apprehend  the  con-' 
d!tion>5  of  gbo.^ly  phenomena. 


■»' 


84  SILAS    MAKNER. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Yet  the  next  moment  there  seemed  to  be  some  evi- 
dence that  ghosts  had  a  more  condescending  disposi- 
tion than  Mr.  Macey  attributed  to  them;  for  the  pale 
thin  figure  of  Silas  Marner  was  suddenly  seen  stand- 
ing in  the  warm  light,  uttering  no  word,  but  looking 
round  at  the  company  with  his  strange  unearthly  eyes. 
The  long  pipes  gave  a  simultaneous  movement,  like 
the  antennae  of  startled  insects,  and  every  man  pres- 
ent, not  excepting  even  the  sceptical  farrier,  had  an 
impression  that  he  saw,  not  Silas  Marner  in  the  flesh, 
but  an  apparition;  for  the  door  by  which  Silas  had 
entered  was  hidden  by  the  high-screened  sfeats,  and  no 
one  had  noticed  his  approach.  Mr.  Macey,  sitting  a 
long  w^ay  off  the  ghost,  might  be  supposed  to  have 
felt  an  argumentative  triumph,  which  would  tend  to 
neutralise  his  share  of  the  general  alarm.  Had  he 
not  always  said  that  when  Silas  Marner  was  in  that 
strange  trance  of  his,  his  soul  went  loose  from  his. 
body  ?  Here  was  the  demonstration :  nevertheless,  oa 
the  whole,  he  would  have  been  as  well  contented  with- 
out it.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  a  dead  silence, 
Marner's  want  of  breath  and  agitation  not  allowing 
him  to  speak.  The  landlord,  under  the  habitual  Sense 
that  he  was  bound  to  keep  his  house  open  to  all  com- 
pany, and  confident  in  the  protection  of  his  unbroken 


SILAS    MARNEE.  86 

neutrality,  at  last  took  on  himself  the  task  of  adjuring" 
the  ghost. 

"Master  Marner/'  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory  tone, 
"what's  lackin^o  you  ?     What's.your  business  heret' 

"Robbed!"  said  Silas,  gaspingly.  "I've  l^een  rob- 
bed! I  want  the  constable — and  the  Justice — and 
Squire  Cass — and  Mr.  Crackenthorp.'' 

"Lay  hold  on  him,  Jem  Eodney,"  said  the  landlord, 
the  idea  of  a  ghost  subsiding;  "lie's  off  his  head,  I 
doubt.     He's  wet  through." 

Jem  Rodney  was  the  outermost  man,  and  sat  con- 
veniently near . Marner's  standing-place;  but  he  de- 
clined to  give  his  services.      ** 

"Come  and  lay  hold  on  him  yourself,  Mr.  Snell,  if 
you've  a  mind,''  said  Jem,  rather  sullenly.  "He's 
been  robbed,  and  murdered  too,  for  what  I  know,''  he 
a^ded,  in  a  muttering  tone. 

"Jem  Rodney!"  said  Silas,  turning  and  fixing  his 
strange  eyes  on  the  suspected  man. 

"Ay,  Master  Marner,  what  do  3'ou  want  wi'  meV* 
*aid  Jem,  trembling  a  little,  and  seizing  his  drinking- 
can  as  a  defensive  weapon. 

"If  it  wgis  you  who  stole  my  money,"  said  Silas,, 
clasping  his  hands  entreatingly,  and  raising  his  voice 
to  a  cry  "give  it  me  back, — and  I  wont  meddle  with 
you.  I  won't  set  the  constable  on  you.  Give  it  me 
back,  and  I'll  let  you — I'll  let  you  have  a  guinea." 

"Me  stole  your  money!"  said  Jem,  angrily.  "I'll 
pitch  this  can  at  your  eye  if  you  talk  0'  ?ni/  stealing 
your  money." 

"Come,  come,  Master  Marner,''  said  the  landlord, 


8G  SILAS   >p.ENEE. 

now^Hsirig  resolutely,  and  seizing  Marner  by  the^houl- 
der,  "if  you've  got  any  information  to  lay,  speak  it 
out  sensible,  and  show  as  you're  in -your  right  mind, 
if  you  expect  anybody  to  listen  to  yoite«'  You're  as  wet 
as  a  drowned  rat.  Sit  down  and  dry  yourself,  and 
speak  straighl:  forrard."      . 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,  man,"  said  the  farrier,  who  began 
to  feel  that  he  had  not  been  quite  on  a  par  with  him- 
self and  the  occasion.  "Let's  have  no  more  staring 
and  screaming,  else  we'll  have  you  strapped  lor  a 
madman.  That  was  why  I  didn't  speak  at  the  first — 
thinks  I,  the  man's  run  mad." 

"Ay,  ay,  make  him*  sit  down,"  said  several  voices 
at  once,  well  pleased  that  the  reality  of  ghosts  remain- 
ed still  an  open  question. 

The  landlord  forced  Marner  to  take  off  his  coat, 
and  then  to  sit  down  on  a  chair  aloof  from  every  oi|e 
else,  in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  anci^in  the  direct  rays 
of  the  fire.  .  The  weaver,  too  feeble  to  have  any  dis- 
tinct purpose  beyond  that  of  getting  help  to  recover 
his  money,  submitted  unresistingly.  The  transiewb 
fears  of  the  company  were  now .  forgotten  in  their 
strong  ciiriosity,  and  all  faces  were  turned  towards 
Silas,  when  Ihe  landlord,  having  seated  himself  again, 
said-^ 

"Now  then,  Master  Marner,  what's  this  you've  got 
to  say,  as  you've  been  robbed?  speak  out."^ 

"He'd  better  not  say  again  as  it  was  me  robbed 
him,"  tried  Jem. Rodney,  hastily.  "What  could  I 
ha'  done  with  his  money?  I  could  as  easy  steal  the 
parson's  surplice,  and  wear  it/' 


SILAS  #MARNEiJ.  87 

'"Hold  your  tongue,  Jem,  and  let's  hear  what  he's 
got  to  snv,"  said  tlie  landlord.  "Now  then,  Master 
Marner/ 

Silas  now  told  his  story  under  freqlient  question-, 
ihg,  as  the  mysterious  character  of  the  robbery  be- 
came evideijt. 

This  strangely  novel  situation  of  opening  his  trou- 
ble to  his  Raveloe  neighbours,  of  sitting  in  the  warmth 
of  a  hearth  not  his  owii,  and  feeling  the  presence  of 
faces  and  voices  which  were  his  nearest  promise  of 
help,  had  doubtless  its  influence  on  Marner,  in  spite 
of  his  passionate  preoccupation  with  his  loss.  Our 
consciousness  rarely  registers  the  beginning  of  a 
growth  within  us-  any  more  than  without  us:  there 
have  been  many  circulations  of  the  sap  before  wc  de- 
tect the  smallest  sign  of  the  bud. 

The  slight  suspicion  with  which  his  hearers  at  first  , 
listened  to  him,  gradually  melted  away  before  the 
convincing  simplicity  of  his  distress ;  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  the  neighbours  to  doubt  that  Marner  was  tell- 
ing the  truth,  notbecause  they  w^ere  capable  of  argu- 
ing at  gonce  from  the  nature  of  his  statements  to  the 
absence  ft^any  motive  for  making  fchem  falsely,  but 
because,  as  Mr.  Macey  observed,  "P^Iks  as  had  the 
devil  to  back  'em  were  not  likely  to  be  so' mushed'"' 
as  poor  Silas  was.  Rather,  from  the  strange  fact  that 
the  robber  had  left  no  traces,  and  had  happened  to 
know  the  knick  of  time,  utterly  incalculable  by  mor- 
tal agents,  when  Silas  Would  go  away  from  home  with- 
out locking  his  door,  the  more  probable  conclusion 
seemed  to  bo,  that  his  disrep.utable  intimacy  in  that 


S8  ,SILA'3    !k|ARNKR. 

quarter,  if  it  ever  existed,  had  been  broken  up,  aiid 
that,  in  conseq-uence,  this  ill  turn  had  been  done  to 
Marner  by  somebody  it  was  quite  in  vain  to  set  the 
nonstable  after.  Why  this  preternatural  felon  should 
be  obliged  to  wait  till  the  door  was  left  unlocked, 
was  a  question  which  did  not  present  itself. 

"It  isn't  Jetn  Rodney  as  has  done  this  work,  Mas- 
ter Marner,"  said  the  landlord.  "You  musn't  be 
a-castiiig  your  eye  at  poor  Jem.  There  may  be  a  bit 
of  a  reckoning  against  Jem  for  the  matter  of  a  hare  or 
so,  if  anybody  was  bound  to  keep  their  eyes  staring 
open,  and  niver  to  wink — but  Jem's  been  a-sitting 
here  drinking  his  can,  like  the  decentest  man  i'  the 
parish,  since  before  you  left  your  house,  Master  Mar- 
ner, by  your  own  account." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey;  "let's  have  no  accusing 
o'  the  innicent.  That  isn't  the  law.  j^There  must  be 
folks  to  swear  again'  a  man  before,  he  can  be  ta'en 
up.  Let's  liave  no  accusing  o'  the  innicent,  Master 
Marner." 

Memory  was  not  so  utterly  torpid  in  Silas  that  it 
could  not  be  wakened  by  these  words.  •  With  a  move- 
ment of  compunction,  as  new  and  strange,.tt)  him  as 
everything  else  within  the  last  hour,  he  started  from 
his  chair  and  went  close  up  to  Jem,  looking  at  him 
as  if  he  wanted  to  assure  himself  of  the  expression  in 
his  face. 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  said — "yes,  yes — I  ought  to 
have  thought.  There  's  nothing  to  witness  against 
you,  Jem.  Only  you'd  been  into  my  house  oftener 
than  anybody  else,  and.  so  you  came  into  ray  head.,- 


SILAS    WARNER.  «y 

I  don't  accuse  you — I  won't  accuse  anybody — ')nly," 
he  added,  lifting  up  his  hands  to  his  head,  and  turning 
away  v/ith  bewikh^red  misery,  "I  try — I  try  to  think 
where  my  money  can  be."' 

"Ay,  ay,  they're  gone  where  it's  hot  enough^to  melt 
^em,  I  doubt,''  said  Mr.  Macey. 

"Tchuh!"  said  the  farrier.  And  then  he  asked, 
with  a  cross-examining  air,  "How  much  money  might 
there  be  in  the  bags,  Master  Marner?'' 

"Two  hundred  and  seventy-two  pounds,  twelve  and 
sixpence,  last  night  when  I  counted  it,"  said  Silas, 
seating  himself  again,  with  a  groan. 

"Pooh!  why,  they'd  be  none  so  heavy  to  carry. 
Some  tramp's  been  in,  that's  all ;  and  as  for  the  no 
footmarks,  and  the  bricks  and  the  sand  being  all  right 
— why,  your  eyes  are  pretty  much  like  a  insect's,  Mas- 
ter Marner;  they're  obliged  to  look  so  close,  you  can't 
see  much  at  a  time.  It's  my  opinion  as,  if  I'd  been 
you,  or  you'd  been  me — for  it  comes  to  the  same  thing 
— you  wouldn't  have  thought  you'd  found  everything 
as  you  left  it.  But  what  I  vote  is,  as  two  of  the  sen- 
siblest  o'  the  company  should  go  with  you  to  Master 
Kench,  the  constable's — he's  ill  i'  bed,  I  know  that 
hiuch — and  get  him  to  appoint  one  of  us  his  deppity; 
for  that's  the  laXv,  and  I  don't  think  anybody  'ull  take 
upon  him  to  contradick  me  there.  It  isn't  much  of  a 
walk  to  Kench's;  and  then,  if  it's  me  as  is  deppity,  I'll 
go  back  with  you.  Master  Marner,  and  examine  your 
primises;  and  if  anybody's  got  ony  fault  to  find  with 
that,  I'll  thank  him  to  stand  up  and  say  it  out  like  a 
man.'' 


9(j)  SILAS    MARKER. 

By  this  pregoaiifc  speech  the  farrier  had  re-establish- 
ed his  self-complacency,  and  waited  with  confidence  to 
hear  himself  named  as  one  of  the  superlatively  sensi- 
ble men. 

"Let  us  see  how  the  night  is,  though,"  said,  tho 
landlord,  v/ ha  also  considered  himself  personally  con- 
cerned in  this  pjoposition.  "Why,  it  rains  heavy 
still,"  he  said,  returning  from  the  door. 

"Well,  I'm  not  the  man  to  be  afraid  o'  the  rain,^' 
said  the  farrier.  "For  it  '11  look  bad  when  Justice 
Malani  hears  as  respectable  men  like  us  had  a  infor- 
mation laid  before  'em  and  took  no  steps.'' 

The  landlord  agreed  .with  this  view,  and  after  tak- 
ing the  sense  of  the  company,  and  duly  rehearsing  a 
small  ceremony  known  in  high  ecclesiastical  life  as  the 
nolo  episcopari,  he  consented  to  take  on  himself  the 
chill  dignity  of  going  to  Kench's.  But  to  the  farrier's 
strong  disgust,.  Mr.  Macey  now  started  an  objection  to 
his  proposing  himself  as  a  deputy- constable;  for  that 
oracular  old  gentleman,,  claiming  to  know  the  law, 
stated,  as  a  fact  dehvered  to  him  by  his  father,  that  na 
doctor  could  be  a  constable. 

"And  you're  a  doctor,  I  reckon,  though  you're  only 
a  cow-doctor— for  a  fly's  a  fly,  though  it  may  be  a 
hoss-fly,"  concluded  Mn  Macey,  wondering  a  little  at 
his  own  "'cuteness.'' 

Therfe  was  a  hot  debate  upon  this,  the  farrier  being 
of  course  indisposed  to  renounce  the  quality  of  doctor, 
"but  contending  that  a  doctor  could  be  a  constable  if 
he  hked-^the  lawnaeant,  he  needn't  be  one  if  he  didn't 
like.     Mr.  Macey  thought  this  was  nonsense,  since  the 


SILIS    MABNER.  91 

law  was  not  likely'  to  be  fonder  of  doctors  than  of  other 
folks.  Moreover,  if  it  was  in  the  nature  of  doctors 
more  than  of  other  men  not  to  like  being  constables, 
bow  \camc  Mr.  Dowlas  to  be  so  eager  to  act  in  that 
capacity  1 

"/dort't  want  to  act  the  constable,"  said  the  farrier, 
driven  into  a  corner  by  this  merciless  reasoning;  "and 
there's  no  man  can  say  it  of  me,  if  he'd  tell  the  truth. 
But  if  there's  to  be  any  jealousy  and  envying  about 
going  to  Kench's  in  the  rain,  let  them  go  as  like  it — 
you  won't  get  me  to  go,  I  can  tell  you." 

By  the  landlord's  intervention,  however,  the  dispute 
was  accommodated.  Mr.  Dowlas  consented  to  go  as 
a  second  person,  disinclined  to  act  officially;  and  so 
poor  Silas,  furnished  with  some  old  coverings,  turned 
out  with  4iis  two  companions  into  the  rain  again,  think- 
ing of  the  long  night-hours  before  him,  not  as  those  do 
who  long  to,  rest,  but  as  those  who  expect  to  "watch 
for  the  morning." 


{^2  •    SILAS    MAENER. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

When  Gi-odfrey  Cass  returned  from  Mrs.  Osgood's 
party  at  midnight,  he  was  not  much  surprised  to  learn 
that  Dunsey  had  riot  come  home.  Perhaps  he  had 
not  sold  Wildfire,  and  was  waiting  for  another  chance 
— perhaps,  on  that  foggy  afternoon,  he  had  preferred 
housing  himself  at  the  Red  Lion. at  Batherley  for  the 
night,  if  the  run  had  kept  him  in  that  neighborhood ; 
for  he  was  not  likely  to  feel  much  concern  about  leav- 
ing his  brother  in  suspense.  Godfrey's  mind  was  too 
full  of  Nancy  Lammeter's  looks  and  behaviour,  too 
full  of  the  exasperation  against  himself  and  his  lot, 
which  the  sight  of  her  always  produced  in  him,  for 
him  to  give  much  thought  to  Wildfire  or  to  the  prob- 
abilities of  Dunstan's  conduct. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  excited 
by  the  story  of  the  robbery,  and  Grodfrey,  like  every 
one  else,  was  occupied  in  gathering  and  discussing 
news  about  it,  and  in  visiting  the  Stone-pits.  The 
rain  had  washed  away  all  possibility  of  distinguishing 
foot-marks,  but  a  close  investigation  of  the  spot  had 
disclosed,  in  the  direction  opposite  to  the  village  a  tin- 
der-box, with  a  flint  and  steel,  half  sunk  in  the  mud. 
It  was  not  Silas's  tinder-box,  for  the  only  one  he  had 
ever  had  was  still  standing  on  his  shelf;  and  the  in- 
ference generally  accepted  was,  that  the  tinder-box  in 
the  ditch  was  somehow  connected  with  the  robbery. 


SILAS    MARKER.  -JO 

A  small  minority  shook  their  heada,  ami  intimated 
tlicir  opinion  that  it  was  not  a  robbery  to  have  much 
light  thrown  on  it  by  tinder-boxes,  that  Master  Mar- 
ner's  tale  had  a  queer  look  with  it,  and  that  such 
things  had  been  known  as  a  man's  doing  himself  a 
mischief,  and  then  setting  the  justice  to  look  for  the 
doer.  But  wjien  questioned  closely  as  to  their  grounds 
for  this  opinion,  and  what  Master  Marner  had  to  gain 
by  such  false  pretences,  they  only  shook  their  heads  as 
before,  and  observed  that  there  was  no  knowing  what 
some  folks  counted  gain;  moreover,  that  everybody 
had  a  right  to  their  own  opinions,  grounds  or  no 
grounds,  and  that  the  weaver,  as  everybody  knew,  was 
partly  crazy.  Mr.  Macey,  though  he  joined  in  the  de- 
fence of  Marner  against  all  suspicions  of  deceit,  also 
pooh-poohed  the  tinder-box;  indeed,  repudiated  it  as 
a  rather  impious  suggestion,  tending  to  imply  that  ev- 
erything must  be  done  by  human  hands,  and  that 
there  was  no  power  which  could  make  away  with  the 
guineas  without  moving  the  bricks.  Nevertheless,  he 
turned  round  rkther  sharply  on  Mr.  Tookey,  when  the 
zealous  deputy,  feeling  that  this  was  a  view  of  the  case 
peculiarly  suited  to  a  parish-clerk,  carried  it  still  far- 
ther, and  doubted  whether  it  was  right  to  inquire 
into  a  robbery  at  all  when  the  circumstances  were 
so  mysterious. 

"As  if/'  concluded  Mr.  Topkey — "as  if  there  was 
nothing  but  what  could  be  made  out  by  Justices  and 
constables.'' 

"Now,  don^  you  be  for  overshooting  the  mark, 
Tookey,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  his  head  aside,  ad- 


94  8ILAS    MABNI3K. 

monishingly.  "That's  what  you're  allays  at;  if  I 
throw  a  stone  and- hit,  you  think  there's  summat  bet- 
ter than  hitting,  and  you  try  to  throw  a  stone  beyond. 
What  I  said  was  against  the  tinder-box:  I  said  nothing 
against  justices  and  constables,  for  they're  o'  King 
Greorge's  making,  and  it  'ud  be  ill-becoming  a  man  ift 
a  parish  office  to  fly  out  again  Kihg  Geocgo." 

While  these  discussions  were  going  on  amoiigst  the 
group  outside  the  Rainbow,  a  higher  consultation  was 
being  carried  on  within,  under  the  presidency  of  Mr. 
Crackenthorp,  the  rector,  assisted  by  Squire  Cass  and 
other  substantial  parishioners.  It  had  just  occurred 
to  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord — he  being,  as  he  observed, 
a  man  accustomed  to  put  two  and  two  together — to 
connect  with  the  tinder-box  which,  as  deputy-consta- 
ble, he  himself  had  had  the  honourable  distinction  of 
finding,  certain  recollections  of  k  pedlar  who  had  call- 
ed to  drink  at  the  house  about  a  month  before,  and 
had  actually  stated  that  he  carried  a  tinder-box  about , 
with  him  to  light  his  pi[)e.  Here,  surely,  was  a  clue 
to  be  followed  out.  And  as  memory,  whf^n  duly  im- 
pregnated with  ascertained  facts,  is  sometimes  surpris- 
ingly fertile,  Mr.  Snell  gradually  recovered  a  vivid  im- 
pression of  the  effect  produced  on  him  by  the  pedlar's 
countenance  and  conversation.  He  had  a  "look  with 
his  eye''  .which  fell  unpleasantly  on  Mr.  Snell's  sensi- 
tive organism.  To  be  sure,  he  didn't  say  anything 
particular — no,  except  that  about  the  tinder-box — but 
it  is'nt  what  a  man  says,  it's  the  way  he  says  it*  More- 
over, '  he  had  a  swarthy  foreignness  of  complexion 
which  boded  little  honestv. 


SILAS    MARNER.  S5 

"Did  he  wear  ear-rings'!"  Mr.  Crackenthorp  wished 
to  kuow,  having  some  acquaintance  with  foreign  cus^ 
toms. 

"Well — stay — let  me  see,"'  said 'Mr.  Snell,  like  a  do- 
cile clairvojante,  who  would  really  not  make  a  mis- 
take if  she  could  help  it.  After  stretching  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth  and  contracting  his  eyes,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  see  the  ear-rings,  he  appeared  to  give 
up  the  effort,  and  said,  "Well,  he'd  got  car-rings  in 
his  box  to  sell,  so  it's  natral  to  suppose  he  might  westr 
'em.  But  he  called  at  every  house,  a'most,  in  the  vil- 
lage: there's  somebody  el^e,  mayhap,  saw  'em  in  bis 
ears,  though  I  can't  take  upon  me  rightly  to  say." 

Mr.  Snell  was  correct  in  his  surmistr,  that^omebody 
else  would  remember  the  pedlars  ear-rings. .  For,  on 
the  spread  of  inquiry  among  the  villagers,  it  was  stated 
with  gathering  emphasis,  that  the  parson  had  wanted 
to  know  whether  the  pedlar  wore  ear-rings  in  his  ears^ 
and  an  impression  was  created  that  a  great  deal  de- 
pended on  the  eliciting  of  this  fact.  Of  course  every 
one  who  heard  the  question,  not  having  any  distinct 
image  of  the  pedlar  as  without  ear-rings,  immediately 
had  an  image  of  him  icith  ear-rings,  larger  or  smaller, 
as  the  case  might  be;  and  the  image  was  presently 
taken  for  a  vivid  recollection,  so  that  the  glazier's  wife, 
a  well-intentioned  woman,  not  given,  to  lying,  and 
whose  house  was  among  the  cleanest  in  the  village, 
was  ready  to  declare,  as  sure  as  ever  she  me^nt  to  take 
the  sacrament,  the  very  next  Christmas  that  was  ever 
coming,  that  she  had  seen  big  ear-rings,  in  the  shape 
of  the  young  moon,  in  the  pedlar's  two  e^rs ;  while 


96  SILAS    MARNER. 

Jinny  Oates,  the  cobler's  daughter,  being  a  more  im- 
aginative person,  stated  not  only  that  she  had  seen 
them  too,  but  that  they  had  made  her  blood  creep,  as 
it  did  at  that  very  moment  while  there  she  stood. 

Also,  by  way  of  throwing  further  light  on  this  clue 
of  the  tinder-box,  a  collection  was.made  of  all  the  ar- 
ticles purchased  from  the  pedlar  at  various  houses,  and 
carried  to  the  Rainbow  to  be  exhibited  there.  In  fact, 
there  was  u  general  feeling  in  the  village,  that  for  the 
cleariug-up  of  this  robbery  there  must  be  a  great  deal 
done  "at  the  Rainbow,  and  that  no  man  need  offer  his. 
wife  an  excuse  for  going  there  while  it  was  the  scene 
of  severe  public  duties. 

Some  disappointment  was  felt,  and  perhaps  a  little 
indignation  also,  when  it  became  known  that  Silas 
Marner  on  being  questioned  by  the  Squire  and  the 
parson,  had  retained  no  other  recollection  of  the  ped- 
lar than  that  he  had  called  at  his  door,  but  had  not 
entered  his  house,  having  turned  away  at  once  when 
Silas,  holding  the  door  ajar,  had  said  that  he  wanted 
nothing.  This  had  been  Silas's  testimony,  though  he 
clutched  strongly  at  the  idea  of  the  pedlar's  being  the 
culprit,  if  only  because  it  gave  him  a  definite  image 
of  a  whereabout  for  his  gold,  after  it  had  been  taken 
away  from  its  hiding-place:  he  could  see  it  now  in 
the  pedlar's  box.  But  it  was  observed  with  some  ir- 
ritation in  the  village,  that  anybody  but  h.  "blind 
creatur"  like  Marner  would  have  seen  the  man  prowl- 
ing about,  for  how  came  he  to  leave  his  tinder-box  in 
the  ditch  close  by,  if  he  hadn't  been  Hngering  there? 
Doubtless,  he  had  made  his  observations  when  he  saw 


SILAri    MAKNEK.  .*  . 

Mainer  at  the  door.  Anybody  might  know — and  only 
look  at  him — that  the  weaver  was  a  half-crazy  miser. 
It  .was  a  wonder  the  pedlar  hadn't  murdered  him; 
men  of  that  sort,  with  rings  in  their  ears,  had  been 
known  for  murderers  often  and  often;  there  had  been' 
one, tried  at  the  'sizes,  not  so  long  ago  but  what  there 
were  people  living  who  remembered  it. 

Godfrey  Cass,  indeed,  entering  the  Rainbow  during 
one  of  Mr.  Snell's  frequently  repeated  recitals  of  his 
testimony,  had  treated  it  lightly,  stating  that  he  him- 
self had  bought  a  pen-knife  of  the  pedlar,  and  thought 
him  a  merry  grinning  fellow  enough ;  it  was  all  non- 
sense, he  said,  about  the  man's  evil  looks.  But  this 
was  spoken  of  in  the  village  as  the  random  talk  of 
youth,  "as  if  it  was  only  Mr.  Snell  who  had  seen 
something  odd  about  the  pedlar!"  On  the  contrary, 
there  were  at  feast  half-a-dozen  who  were  ready  to  go 
before  Justice  Malam,  and  give  in  much  more  striking 
testimony  than  any  the  landlord  could  furnish.  It 
was  to  be  hoped  Mr.  Godfrey  would  not  go  to  Tarley 
and  throw  cold  water  on  what  Mr.  Snell  said  there, 
and  so  prevent  the  justice  from  drawing  up  a  warrant. 
He  was  suspected  of  intending  this,  when,  after  mid- 
day, he  was  seen  setting  off  on  horseback  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Tarley. 

But  by  this  time  Godfrey's  interest  in  the  robbery 
had  faded  before  his  growing  anxiety  about  Dunstau 
and  Wildfire,  and  he  was  goin^,  not  to  Tarley,  but  to 
Batherle}'^  unable  to  rest  in  uncertainty  about  them 
any  longer.  The  possibility  tha,t  Dunstan  had  played 
him  the  ugly  trick  of  riding  away  with  Wildfire,  to 


,08  aiLAS    MAUNEK. 

retuni  'ai  the  end  of  a  month,  when  lie  had  gambled 
;iw8iy  or  otherwise  squandered  the  price  of  the  horse, 
was  a  fear  that  urged  itself  upon  him  more,  evcil,  than 
the  thought  of  an  accidental  injury  ;  and  now  that  the 
dance  at  Mrs.  Osgood's  was  past,  he  was  irritated  with 
liimsclf  tliat  he  had  trusted  his  horse  to  Dunstan.-  In- 
stead of  trying  to  still  his  fears, -he  encouraged  them, 
with  that  superstitious  impression  which  clings  to  us 
all,  that,  if  we  expc'cf  evil  very  strondy  it  is  the  less 
likely  to  come  ;  and  when  he  heard  a  horse  approach- 
ing at  a  trot,  and  saw  a  hat  rising  above  a  hedge  be- 
yond an  angle  of  tlie  lane,  he  felt  as  if  his  conjuration 
had  succeeded.  But  no  sooner  did  the  horse  come 
within  sight,  than  his  heart  sank  again.  It  was  not 
WikWre ;  and  in  a  few  moments  more  he  discerned 
that  tlu?  rider  was  not  Dunstan,  but  Bryce,  who  pulled 
up  to  speak,  with  a  face  that  implied 'something  dis- 
agreeable. 

"Well,  Mr.  GodlVey,  that's  a  lucky  brothti  ui  yout^, 
that  Master  Dunsey,  isn't  he!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Godfrey,  hastil}. 

"Why,  hasn't  he  been  home  yet?"  said  Bryce. 

"Holne?  no.  What  has  happened?  Be  quick. 
What  has  he  done  with  my  horse?'' 

"Ah,  I  thought  it  was  }ours,  though  he  pretended 
you  had  parted  with  it  to  him." 

"Has  he  thrown  him  down  and  broken  his  knees?" 
said  Godfrey,  flushed  with  exasperation. 

"Worse  than  that/'  said  Bryce.  "You  sec,  I'd  made 
a  bargain  with  hinv  to  buy  the  horse  for  a  hundred 
and  twenty — a  swinging  price,  but  I  always  liked  the 


MAltlNJ.i 


horse.  And  wiiai;  (_;oes  he  do  but^o  and  stake  iimi-- 
flly  at  a  hedge  with  stakes  in  i't,  atop  of  a  bank.with. 
a  ditch  before  it.  The  horse  had  been  dead  a  pretty 
good  while  when  he  was  found.  So  he  hasn't  been 
hom(| since,  hits  he?"* 

"Home?  no,"  said  G-oaircy,  -aiid  lie'd  better  keep 
awa}-.  Confound  me  for  a  fool!  I  might  have  known 
this  would  be  the  end  of  it." 

'^Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  sai^  Bryce,  "after  I'd 
bargained  for  the  horse,  it  did  come  into  rriy  head  that 
he  might  be  riding. and  selling  the  horse  without  your 
knowledge,  fer  I;  didn't  believe  it  was  his  own.  I  knew 
Master  Dunsey  was  up  to  his  tricks  sometimes.  But 
where  can  he  be  gone?  He's  never  been  seen  at 
Batherlcy.  He  couldn't  have  been  hurt,  for  he  tiiust 
have  walked  off.'' 

"Hurt?"  said  GfMlfr€y,  bitterly.  "He'll  never  bo 
hurt— he's  made  to  hurt  other  people. ' 

"And  so  you  did  give  him  leave  to  sell  the  horse, 
eh?''  said  Bryce. 

"Yes;  I  wanted  i*)  part  with  the  horse — he  was 
always  a  little  too  hard  in  the  mouth  for  me,"  said 
Godfrey;  his  pride  making  him  wince  under  the  idea 
that  Bryce  guessed  the  sale  to  be  a  mattet  of  necessi- 
ty. "I  was  going  to  see  after  him — ^I  thought  some 
mischief  had  happened.  I'll  go  back  now,''  he  added, 
turning  the  horse's  head,  and  wishing  he  could  get  rid 
of  Bryce;  for  he  felt  that,  the  long-dreaded  crisis  in 
his  life  was  close  upon  him.  "You're  coming  on  to 
Raveloe,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Well,  no,  not  now,"  said  Bryce.     "I  was  coming 


100  SILAS    MARNEli. 

round  there,  for  I  had  to  go  to  Flittdn,.'and  1  thought 
I  might  as  well  take  jon  in  my  way,  and  just  let  you 
know  all  I  knew  myself  about  the.  horse.  I  suppose 
Master  Dunsey  didn't  like  to  show  himself  till  tlie  ill 
news  had  blown  over  a  bit.  IIo's  perhaps  gone  to  pay 
a  visit  at  the  Three  Crowns,  by  Whitbridge-^I  know 
he's  fond  of  the  house." 

"Perhaps  he  is,",  said  Godfrey,  rather  absently. 
Then  rousing  himself,  he  said,  wdth  an  effort  at  care- 
lessness, "We  shall  hear  of  him  soon  enough,  I'll  l)c 
bound.'' 

"Well,  here's  my  turning,"  said  Bryce,  not  surprised 
to  perceive  that  Godfrey  was  rather  "down;"  "so  I'll 
bid  you  good-day,  and  wish  I  may  bring  you  better 
news  another  time." 

Godfrey  rode  along  slowly,  representing  to  himself 
the  scene  of  confession  to  his  father  fi'om  which  he 
felt  that  there  was  now  no  longer  any  escape.  The 
revelation  about  the  money  must  be  made  the  very 
next  morning;  and  if  he  withheld  the  rest,  Dunstau 
would  be  sure  to  come  back  shortly,  and  finding  that 
he  must  bear  the  brunt  of  his  father's  anger,  would 
tell  the  whole  story  out  of  spite,  even  though  he  had 
nothing  to  gain  by  it.  There  was  one  step,  perhaps, 
by  which  he  might  still  win  Dunstan's  silence  and  put 
off  the  evil  day:  he  might  tell  his  father  that  he  had 
himself  spent  the  money  paid  to  him  by  Fowler;  and 
as  he  had  never  been  guilty  of  such  an  offence  before, 
,  the  affair  would  blow  over  after  a  little  storming.  But 
Godfrey  could  not  bend  himself  to  this.  He  felt  that 
.  in  fetting  Dunstau  have  the  money,  he  had  already 


been  guilBfcra  breach  of  trust  hardly  less  culpable 
than  that  cJMspencling  the  money  directly  for  his  own 
behoof;  aiM|  yet  there  was  a  distinction  between  the 
two  acts  wliich  made  him  feel  that  the  one  wa"s  .so 
(iiuch  more  b];i'"^>:«^iii]is^  than  the  other  as  to  h.-  inf,.!. 
erable  to  him. 

"I  dont  pretend  to  be  a  good  fellow,"  he  said  tcv 
himself;  "but  I'in  not  a  scoundrel — at  least,  I'll  stop 
sliort  somewhere.  Ill  bear  the  consequences  of  what 
I  have  done  sooner  than  make  believe  I've  done  what 
I  never  would  Jfave  done.  I'd  never  have  spent  the 
money  for  my  own  pleasure— I  was  tortured  into  it." 

Through  the  remainder  of  this  day  Godfrey,  with 
only  occasional  fluctuations,  kept  his  will  bent  in  the 
direction  of  a  complete  avowal  to  his  father,  and  he 
withheld  the  story  of  Wildfire's  loss  till  the  next 
morning,  that  it  might  serve  him  as  an  introduction 
to  heavier  matter.  The  old  Squire  v^as  accustomed 
to  his  son's  frequent  absence  from  ]iome,  and  thought 
neither  Dunstan's  nor  Wildfire's  non-appearance  a 
matter  calling  for  remark.  Godfrey  said  to  himself 
again  and  again,  that  if  he  let  slip  tl^is  one  opportuni- 
ty of  confession,  he  might  never  have  another;  the 
revelation  might  be  made  even  in  a  more  odious  way 
than  bv  Dunstan's  malignity;  she  might  come,  as  she 
had  threatened  to  do.  And  then  he  tried  to  make  the 
scene  easier  to  him'self  by  rehearsal:  he  made  up  his 
mind  how  he  would  pass  from  the  admission  of  his 
weakness  in  let'ting  Dunstan  have  the  money  to  the 
fact  that  Dunstan  had  a  hold  on  him  which  he  had 
been  unable  to  shake  off,  and  how  he  would  work  up 


102  ■ILAS  .  MARNER. 

liis  father  to  expect  soniething  very  bad  l^Mpf  he  told 
liim .the  fiict.  The  old  Squire  was  an  impMpble  man : 
he  made  resolutions  in  violent  anger,  but  iSvas  not  to 
be  moved  from  them  after  his  anger  had Inbsided— 
as  •tier}'',  volcanic  matters  cool  arid  harden  into  rock. 
Like  many  violent  and  implacable  men,  he  allowed 
evils  to  grow  under  favour  of  his  own  heedlessness, 
till  they  pressed  upon  him  with  exasperating  force, 
and  then  he  turned  round  wioh  fierce  severity  and  be- 
came unrelenting  hard.  This  was  his  system  witli 
his  tenants:  he  allowed  them  to  get  ii^o  arrears,  neg- 
lect their  fences,  reduce  their  stoek,  sell  their  straw, 
and  otherwise  go  the  wrong  way, — and  then,  when  he 
became  short,  of  money  in  consequence  of  th?s  indul- 
gence, he  took  the  hardest  measures  and  would  hf;ten 
to  no  appeal.  Godfrey  knew  all  this,  and  felt  it. with 
the  greater  force  because  he  had  constantly  suffered 
annoyance  from  witnessing  his  father's  sudden  fits  of 
unrelentingness,  for  which  his  own  habitual  irresolu- 
tion deprived  him  of  all  sympathy.  (He  was  not  criti- 
cal on  the  faulty  indulgence  which  pre(5ede'd  these  fits;  • 
that  seemed  to  him  natural  enough.)  Still  there  was 
just  the  chance,-  Godfrey  thought,  that  his  father's 
pride  might  see  this  marriage  in  a  light  that  would  in- 
duce him  to  hush  it  up,  rather  than  turn  his  &on  out 
and  make  the  family  the  talk  of  the  country  lor  ten 
miles  round.  •  , 

This  was  the  view  of  .the  case  that  Godfrey  jnan- 
aged  to  keep  before  him  pretty  closely  till  midnight, 
and  he  went  to  sleep  thinking  that  he  had  done  with 
inward  debating..  But  when   he- awoke  in  tho  still 


SILAS    MARNER.  103 

morning  darkness  he  found  if  impossible  to  rctntwaken 
his  evening  thoughts;  it  was  as  if  they  had  been  tired 
out  and  were  not  to  be  roused  to  further  work.  In- 
stead  of  arguments  for  confession,  he  could  now  feel 
the  presence  of  nothing  but  its  evil  consequences:  Ihc 
old  dread  of  disgrace  came  back — the  old  shrinking 
from  flic  thought  of  raising  a  hopeless  barrier  between 
himself  and  Nancy — the  old  disposition  to  rely  on 
chances  which  might  be  favourable  to  him,*  and  save 
him  from  betrayal.  "Why,  after  all,  should  he  cut  off" 
the  hope  of  them  by  his  own  act?  He  had  seen  the 
matter  in  a  wrong  light  yesterday.  He  had  been  in 
a  rage  with  Dunstau,  and  had  thouglit  of  nothing  but 
a  thorough  break-up  of  their  mutual  understanding  ; 
butwhat  it  would  be  really  wisest  to  do,  was  to  try 
and  soften  his  father's  anger  against  Dnnsey,  and  keep 
things  as  nearly  as  possible  in  their  old  condition.  If 
Dunsey  did  not'  come  back  for  a  few  days  (and  God- 
frey did  not  know  but  that  the  rascal  had  enouffh 
money  in  his  pocket  to  enable  him  to  keep  away  still 
longer),  everything  might  blow  over. 


10^  Hi  LAS    MARNEB. 


CHAPTER  tX. 

,  Godfrey  rose  antl  took  his  own  breakfast  earlier 
than  usual,  but  lingered  in  the  \vainsc'ot(2d  parlour 
till  his  younger  brothers  had  finished  their  meal  and 
gone  ouf,  awaiting  his  father,  who  always  went  out 
and  had  a  walk  with  his  managing  man  before  break- 
fast. Every  one  breakfasted  at  a  difterent  hour  in  the 
Red  House,  and  the  Squire  was  always  the  latest, 
giving  a  long  chance  to  a  rather  feeble  morning  appe- 
tite before  he  tried  it  The  table  had  been  spread 
with  substantial  eatables  nearly  two  hours  before  he 
presented  himself — a  tall,  stout  man  of  sixty,  with  a 
face  in  which  the  knit  brow  and  rather  hard  glance 
seemed  contradicted  by  the  slack  and  feeble  mouth. 
His  person  showed  marks  of  habitual  neglect,  his 
dress  was  slovenly;  and  yet  there  was  something  in 
the  presence  of  the  old  Squire  distinguishable  from 
that  of  the  ordinary  farmers  in  the  parish,-  who  were 
perhaps  every  whit  as  refined  as  he,  but,  having 
slouched  their  way  through"  life  with  a  consciousness 
of  bein'g  in  the  vicinity  of  their  "  betters,"  wanted 
that  self-possession  and  authoritativeness  of  voice  and 
carriage,  which  belonged  to  a  man  who  thought  of 
superiors  as  remote  existences,  with  whom  he  had 
personally  little  more  to  do  than  with  America  or  the 
stars.  The  Squire  had  been  used  to  parish  homage 
all  his  Ufe,  used  to  the  presupposition  that  his  family, 


SILAS    MARNEK.  lv>5 

his  tankards,  and  everything  tliat  was  his,  were  the 
oldest  and  the  best;  and  as  he  never  associated  with 
any  gentry  higher  than  himself,  his  opinion  was  not 
disturbed  by  comparison. 

He  glanced  at  his  son  as  he  entered  the  room,  and 
said,  "  What,  sir !  haven't  you  had  your  breakfast 
'^QiX'  but  there  was  no  pleasant  morning  greeting  be- 
tween them;  not  because  of  any  unfriendliness,  but 
because  the  sweet  flower  of  courtesy  is  not  a  growth 
of  such  homes  as  the  Red  House. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Godfrey,  "Iv'e  had"  my  breakfast, 
but  I  was  waiting  to  speak  to  you." 

"Ah!  well,"  said  the  Squire,  throwing  himself  in- 
difterently  into  his  chair,  and  speaking  in  a  ponderous 
coughing  fashion,  which  was  felt  at  Raveloe  to  be  a 
sort  of  privilege  of  his  rank,  while  he  cut  a  piece  of 
beef,  and  held  it  up  before  the  deer-hound  that  had 
come  in  with  him,  "Ring  the  bell  for  my  ale,  >vill 
you?  You  youngsters'  business  is  your  own  pleasure, 
mostly.  There's  no  hurry  about  it  for  anybody  ,but 
yourselves." 

The  Squire's  life  was  quite  as  idle  as  his  sons',  but 
it  was  a  fiction  kept  up  by  himself  and  his  contempo- 
raries in  Raveloe  that  youth  was  exclusively  the  pe- 
riod of  folly,  and  that  their  aged  wisdom  was  constant- 
ly ill  a  state  of  endurance  mitigated  by  sarcasm.  God- 
frey waited,  before  he  spoke  again,  until  the  ale  had 
been  brought  and  the  door  closed — an  interval  during 
which  Fleet,  the  deer-hound,  had  consumed  enough 
bits  of  beef  to  make  a  poor  man's  holiday  dinner. 

"There's  been  a  cursed  piece  of  ill-luck  with  Wild- ' 


lUG  :=SILAS    MAKNER. 

lire,''  he  began;  "  happened  the  day  before  yesterday/'- 
"What!  broke  his  knees?"  said  the  Squire,  after 
taking  a  draught  of  ale.  "I  thought  you  knew.how 
to  ride  better  than  that,  sir.  I  iiever  threw  a  horse 
down  in  my  life.  If- 1  had,  1  might  ha'  whistled  for 
another,  for  7ny  father  wasn't  quite ^so  ready  to  un- 
string as  some  other  fathers  I  know  of  But  they  must 
turn  over  a  new  leaf — they  must..  What  with  mort- 
gages and  arrears,  I'm  as  short  o'  cash  as  a  roadside 
pauper.  And  that  fool  Kimble  says  the  newspaper's 
talking  about  peace.  Why,  the  country  wouldn't 
have  a  leg  to  stand  on.  Prices  'ud  run  down  like  a 
jack,  and  1  should  never  get  my  arrea^rs,  not  if  I  sold 
all  the  fellows  up.  And  there's  that  damned  Fowler, 
I  won't  put  up  with  him  any  longer;  I've  told  Wiu- 
throp  to  go  to  Cox  this  very  day.  The  lying  scoun- 
drel told  me  he'd  be  sure  to  pay  me  a  hundred  last 
,  month.  He  takes  advantage  because  he's  on  that  out- 
lying farm,  and  thinks  I  shall  forget  him.'' 

The  Squire  had  delivered  this  speech  in  a  cough- 
ing and  interrupted  manner,  but  with  no  pause  long 
enough  for  Godfrey  to  make  it  a  pretext  for  taking 
up  the  word  again.  He  felt  that  his  father  meant  to 
ward  off  any  request  for  money  on  the  ground  of  the 
misfortune  with  Wildfire,  and  that  the  emphasis  he 
had  thus  been  led  to  lay  on  his  shortness  of  cash  and 
his  arrears  was  likely  to  produce  an  attitude  of  mind 
the  most  unfavourable  for  his  own  disclosure.  But  he 
must  go  on,  now  that  he  had  begun. 

"It's  worse  than  breaking  the  horse's  knees — he's 
"been  staked  and  killed,"  be  said,  as  soon  as  his  father 


SILAS  lMARNEl^  107 

was-'  silent,  and  bad'  begun  to  ciit  his  meat  "But  I 
\va.sil"t  thinking  of  asking  you  to  buy  me  another 
liorse;'  I  was  only  thinking  I'd  lost  the  means  of  pay- 
ing you  with  the  price  of  Wildfire,  as  I  meant  to  do. 
DunSey  took  him  to  the  hunt  to  sell  him  for  me  tlio 
other  day,  and  after  he'd  made  a  bargain  for  a  hund- 
red and  twenty  with  Bryce,  he  went  after  the  hounds, 
and  took  some  fool's  leap  or  other,  that  did  for  the 
horse  at  once.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  I  should 
have  paid  you  a  hundred  pounds  this  morning." 

The  Squire  had  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
was  staring  at  his  son  in  amazement,  not  being  suffi- 
ciently quick  of  brain  to  form  a  probable  guess  as  to 
what  could  have  caused  so  strange  an  inversion  of  the 
paternal  and  filial  relations  as  this  proposition  of  his 
son  to  pay  him  a  hundred  pounds. 

"The  truth  is,. sir— I'm  very  sorry — I  was  quite  to 
blame,"  said  Godfrey.  "Fowler  did  pay  that  hund- 
red pounds.  He  paid  it  to  me,  when  I  was  over  there 
one  day  last  month.,  And  Dunsey  bothered  me  for 
the  money,  and  I  let  him  have  it,  because  I  hoped*  I 
should  be  able  to  pay  it  you  before  this." 

The  Squire  was  purple  with  anger  before  his  son 
had  done,  speaking,  and  found  utterance  difficult. 
"You  let  Dunsey  have  it,  sir!  And  how  long  have 
you  been  so  thick  with  Dunsey  that  you  must  collogue 
with  him  to  embezzle  my  money?  Are  you  turning 
out  a  scamp?  I  tell  you,  I 'won't  have  it.  I'll  turn 
the  whole  pack  of  you  out  of  the  house  together,  and 
marry  again.  I'd  have  you  to  remember,  »r,  my 
property's'  got  no  entail  on  it; — since  my   grandfa- 


10^  HILA.i    MAKKER. 

ther's  time  the  Casses  can  do  as  they  like  with"  their 
land.  Remember  that,  sir.  L6t  Dunsey  have  the 
mor^ey!  Why  should  you  let  Dunsey  have  the' mon- 
e.y?     There's  some  lie  at  the  bottom  or"  it."        "  . 

"There's  no  lie,  sir,''  said  Godfrey.  "I  wouldn't 
have  spent  the  money  myself,  but  Dunsey  bothered 
me,  and  I  was  a  fool  and  let  him  have  it.  But  I  n'leant 
to  pay  it,  whether  he  did  or  not.  That's  the  whole 
story.  I  never  meant  to  embezzle  money,  and  I'm 
not  the  man  to  do  it.  You  never  knew  me  to  do  a 
dishonest  trick,  sir." 

"Wliere's  Dunsey,  then?  "What  do  you  stand  talk- 
ing there  for?  Go  and  fetch  Dunsey,  as  I  tell  you, 
and  let  him  give  an  account  of  what  he  wanted  the 
money  for,  and 'what  he's  done  with  it.  He  shall 
repent  it.  I'll  turn  him  out.  I  said  I  would,  and  I'll 
do  it.     He  shan't  brave  me.     Go  and  fetch  him." 

"Dunsey  isn't  come  back,  sir."' 

""What!  did  he  break  his  own  neck,  then?''  said 
the  Squire,  with  some  disgust  at  the  idea  that,  in  that 
case,  he  could  not  fulfil  his  threat. 

"No,  he  wasn't  hurt,  I  believe,  for  the  horse  was 
found  dead,  and  Dunsey  must  have  walked  off.  I 
daresay  we  shall  see  him  again  by-anjd-by.  I  don't 
know. where  he  is." 

"  And  what  must  you  be  letting  him  have  my  mon- 
ey for?  Answer  me  that,  '  said  the  Squire,  attacking 
Godfrey  again,  since  Dunsey  was  not  within  reach. 

""Well,  sir,  I  don't  l^now,"  said  Godfrey,  hesitating- 
ly. TtJat  was  a  feeble  evasion,  but  Godfrey  was  not 
fond  of  lying,  and,  not  being  sufficiently  aware  that 


iiu  sort  of  duplicity  can  long  flourisli  witliout  the  help 
of  vocal  falsehoods,  he  was  quite  unprepared  with  in- 
vented motives. 

"You  don't  know?  I  tell  you  w]?at  it  is,  sir. 
You've  been  up  to  some  trick,  and  you've  beeil  brib- 
ing him  not  to  tell,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  sudden 
acuteness  which  startled  Godfrey,  who  felt  his  heart 
beat  violently  at  the  nearness  -of  his  father's  guess. 
The  sudden  alarq  pushed  him  on  to  take  the  next 
step— a  very  slight  impulse  suffices  for  that  on  a 
downward  road. 

"Why,  sir,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  with  careless 
case,  "it  was  a  little  affair  between  me  and  Dunsey; 
it's  no  matter  to  anybody  else.  It's  hardly  worth 
while  to  pry  into  young  men's  fooleries:  it  wouldn't 
have  made  any  difference  to  you,  sir,  if  I'd  not  had 
the  bad  luck  to  lose  Wildfire.  I  should  have  paid 
you  the  money." 

"Fooleries!  Pshaw!  it's  time  you'd  done  with 
fooleries.  And-  I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  you  must  ha' 
done  with  'em,"  said  the  Squire  frowning,  and  cast- 
ing an  angry  glance  at  his  son.  "Your  goings-on  are 
not  what  I  shall  find  money  for  any  longer.  There  s-.> 
my  grandfather  had  his  stables  full  o'  horses,  and  kept 
a  good  house  too,  and  in  worse  times,  by  wiiat  I  can 
make  out;  and  so  might  I,  if  I  hadn't  four  good-for- 
nothing  fellows  to  hang  on  me  like  horse-leeches. 
Tve  been  too  good  a  father  to  you  all— that's  what  it 
is.     But  I  shall  pull  up,  sir." 

Godfrey  was  silent,     He  was  not  likely  to  be  very 
penetrating  in  his  judgments,  but  he  had  always  had 


110  SILAS    MAKNER.. 

a  sense  that  his  father's  indulgenGe  bad  not  been  kind- 
ness, and  had  had  a  vague  longing  for  some  discipHnc 
that  would  have  checked  liis  own  errant  weakness, 
and  helped  his  better  will-.  The  Squire  ate  his  bread 
and  meat  hastily,  took  a  deep  draught  of  ale,  then  turn- 
ed his  chair  firom  thejablc,  and  began  to  speak  again. 

"It'll  be  all  the  worse  for  you,  you  know — you'd 
need  try  and  help  me  keep  things  together.'' 

"  Weir,  sir,  I've  often  offered  to  take  the  manage- 
ment of  things,  but  you  know  you've  taken'  it  ill  al- 
ways, and  seemed  to  think  I  wanted  to  push  you  out 
of 'your  place." 

"I  know  nothing  o'  your  offering  or  o'  my  taking 
it  ill,"  said  the  Squire,  whose  memory  consisted  in 
certain  string  impressions  unmodified  by  detail ;  ''  but 
I  know,  one  while  you  seemed  to  be  thinking  o' 
marrying,  and  I  didn't  offer  to  put  any  obstacles  in 
your  way,  as  some  fathers  would.  I'd  as  lieve  you 
married  Lammeter's  daughter  as  anybody.  I  suppose, 
if  I'd  said  you  nay,  you'd  ha'  kept  on  with  it ;  but  for 
want  o'  contradiction,  you've  changed  your  mind. 
You're  a  shilly-shally  fellow:  you  take  after  your 
poor  mother.  She  never  had  a  will  of  her  own ;  a 
woman  has  no  call  for  one,  if  she's  got'  a  proper  man 
for  her  husband.  But  your  wife  had  need  of  one,  for 
you  hardly  know  your  own  mind  enough  to  make 
both  your  legs  walk  one  way.  The  lass  hasn't  said 
downright  she  won't  have  you,  has  she  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Godfrey,  feeling  very  hot  and  uncom- 
fortable; "but  I  don't  think  she  will." 

"Think !  why,  haven't  you  the  courage  to  ask  hor  ? 


xx..i,,    ..lAUNEK.  Ill 

Do  you  stick  to  it,  x^ou  vvant  to  have  her — that's  the 
thing?"  '       ■ 

"'There's  no  other  woman  I  want  to  marry,"  said 
Godfrey,  evasively, 

"Well,  then,  let  me  make  the  offer  for  you,  that's 
all,  if  you  haven't  the  pluck  to  do  it  yourself  Lam- 
metcr  isn't  likely  to  be  loth  for  his  daughter  to  marry 
into  my  family,  1  should  think.  And  as  for  the 
pretty  lass,  she  wouldn't  have  her  cousin — and  there's 
nobody  else,  as  I  see,  could  ha'  stdod  in  your  way." 

''I'd  rather  let  it  be,  pleasasu*,  at  present,"  said  God- 
frey, in  alarm.  "I  think  she's  a  little  offended  with 
me  just  now,  and  I  should  like  to  speak  for  myself- 
A  man  must  manage  these  things  for  himself"   . 

"  Well,  speak  then  and  manage  it,  and  sec  if  you 
can't  Uirn  over  a  new  leaf.  That's  what  a  man  must 
do  when  he  thinks  o'  marrying." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  think  of  it  at  present,  sir. 
You  wouldn't  like  to  settle  mc  on  one  of  the  farms,  I 
suppose,  and  I  don't  think  she'd  come  to  live  in  this 
house  with  all  my  brathers.  It's  a  different  sort  of 
life  to  what  she's  been  used  to." 

"Not  come  to  live  in  this  house?  Don't  tell  me. 
You  ask  her,  that's  all,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  short, 
scornful  laugh. 

"I'd  rather  let  the  thing  be,  at  present,  sir,"  said 
Godfrey.  "  I  hope  you  won't  try  to  hurry  it  on  by 
saying  anything." 

*'  I  shall  do  what  1  choose,"  said  the  Squire,  "  and 
I  shall  let  you  know  I'm  master;  else  you  may  turn 
out  and  find  an  estate  to  drop  into  somewhere  else.  . 


112  t-JILAS    MARNEK. 

Gro  out  and  tell  Winthrop  not  to  go  to  Cox's,  but  wait 
for  me.'  And  tell  'em  to  get  my  horse  saddled.  And 
stop:  look  out  and  get  that  hack  o'  Dnnsey's  sold,  and 
hand  me  the  money,  will  you  ?  Hell  keep  no  more 
hacks  at  my  expense.  And  if  you  know  where  \\^s 
sneaking — I  dare  say  you  do — you  may  tell  him  to 
spare  himself  the  journey  o'  coming  back  home.  Let 
him  turn  ostler,  and  keep  him.sclf.  He  shan't  hang 
on  me  any  more." 

"I  don't  know  where  he  is,  sir;  and  if  I  did,  it  isn't 
my  place  to  tell  him  to. keep  away,"  said  Godfrey, 
moving  towards  the  door. 

"Confound  it,  sir,  don't  stay  arguing,  but  go  and 
order  my  horse,''  said  the  Squire,  taking  up  a  pipe. 

Godfrey  left  the  room,  hardly  knowing  whether  he 
were  more  relieved  by  the  sense  that  the  interview 
was  ended  without  having  made  any  change  in  his 
position,  or  more  uneasy  that  he  had  entangled  him- 
self still  further  in  prevarication  and  deceit.     What 
had  passed  about  his  proposing  to  Nancy  had  raised 
a  new  alarm,  lest  by  some  v  after-dinner  words  of  his 
father's  to  Mr.  Lammeter  he  should  be  thrown  into 
the  embarrassment  of  being  obliged  absolutely  to  de- 
cline her  when  she  seemed  to  be  within  his  reach.    He 
fled  to  his  usual  refuge,  that  of  hoping  for  some  un-  / 
foreseen  turn  of  fortune,  some  favorable  chance  which 
would  save  him  from  unpleasant  consequences — per- 
haps even  justify  his  insincerity .  by  manifesting  its 
prudence.       And  in  this  point  of  trusting  to  some 
throw  of  fortune's  dice,  Godfrey  can  hardly  be  called 
specially  old-fashioned.     Favourable  Chance,  I  fancy, 


SILAS    MAENEK.  113 

is  the  god  of  all  men  who  follow  their  own  devices  in- 
stead of  obeying  a  law  Ihey  believe  in.     Let  even  a 
polished  man  of  these  days  get  into  a  position  he  is 
ashamed  to  avow,  and  his  mind  will  be  bent  on  ail  the 
possible  issues  that  may  deliver  him  from  the  calcu- 
lable results  of  that  position.    Let  him  live  outside  his 
income,  or  shirk  the  resolute  honest  work  that  brings 
wages,  and  he  will  presently  find  himself  dreaming  of 
a  possible  benefactor,  a  possible  simpleton  who  may 
be  cajoled  into  using  his  interest,  a  possible  state  of 
mind  in  some  possible  person  not  yet  forthcoming. 
Let  him  neglect  th6  responsibilities  of  his  office,  aad 
he  will  inevitably  anchor  himself  on  the  chance,  that 
the  thing  left  undone  may  turn  out  not  to  be  of  the 
supposed  importance.     Let  him  betray  his  friend's 
confidence,  and  he  will  adore  that  same  cunning  com- 
plexity called  Chance,  which  gives  him  the  hope  that 
his  friend  will  never  know;  let  him  forsake  a  decent 
craft  that  he  may  pursue  the  gentilities  of  a  profession 
to  which  nature  never  called  him,  and  his  religion  will 
infallibly  be  the  worship  of  blessed  Chance,  which  he 
will  believe  in  as  the  mighty  creator  of  success.     The 
evil  principle  deprecated  in  that  religion,  is  the  order- 
ly sequence  by   which  the  seed  brings  forth  a  crop 
after  its  kind. 


11  i  .      ILA.      MAKNER. 


CHAPTER  X. 

JiTSTiCE  Malam  was  naturally  regarded  in  Tarley 
and  Ravcloc  as  a  man  of  capacious  mind,  seeing  that 
he  could  draw  much  wider  conclusions  without  evi- 
derxCLhan  could  be  expected  of  his  neighbours  who 
vvero  not  on  the  Commission  of  the  Peace. .  Such  a 
man  was  not  likely  to  neglect  the  clue  of  the  tinder- 
box,  and  an  inquiry  was  set  on  foot  concerning  a  ped- 
lar, name  unknown,  with  curly  black  hair  and,  a  for- 
eign-complexion,  carrying  a  box  of  cutlery  and  jewel- 
ery,  and  wearing  large  rings  in  his  ears.  But  either 
becaui:-e  inquiry  was  too  slow-footed  to  overtake  him, 
or  becau:;.o  the  description  applied  to  so  many  pedlars 
that  inquiry  did  not  know  how  to  choose  among 
them,.w3eks  passed  away,  and  there  was  no  other  re- 
sult concerning  the  robbery  than  a  gradual  cessation 
of  the  excitement  it  had  caused  in  Raveloe.  Dunstan 
Cass's  abtenoc  was  hardly  a  subject  of  remark;  he 
had  once  befoie  had  a  quarrel  with  his  father,  and  had 
gone  oif,  noboily  know  whither,  to  return  at  the  end 
of  six  weeks,  take  up  his  old  quarters  unforbidden, 
and  swagger  as  usual.  His  own  family,  who  equally 
expected  this  issUv',  with  the  sole  difference  that  the 
Squire  was  determined  this  time  to  forbid  him  the  old 
quarters,  nevei  men\ionc:i  iis  absence;  and  when  his 
uncle  Kimble  or  J^L^>•.  Osgojd  noticed  it,  the  story  of 
his  having  killed  Wildfiie,  and  committed  some  of- 


SILAS    MxVRNEK.  115 

fence  against  his  father,  was  enough  to  prevc;.,  ..... 
prise.  To  connect  the  fact  of  Dunstau's  disappearance 
with  that  of  the  robbery  occurring  on* the  same  clay,  ■ 
lay  quite  away  from  the  track  of  every  one's  thoughl 
—even  Godfrey's,  who  .  had  better  reason  than  any 
one  else  to  know  what  ^  his  brother  was  capable  of. 
He  remembered  no  mention  of  the  weaver  between 
them  s;incc  the  lime,  twelve  years  ago,  when  it  was- 
their  boyish  sport  'to  deride  him;  and,  besides,  his 
imagination  constantly  created  an  alibi  for  Dunstan: 
he  saw  him  continually  in  ^omc  congenial  haunt,  to 
which  he  had  walked  off ,  on  leaving  Wildfire — saw 
him  sponging  on  chance  acquaintances,  and  meditat- 
ing a  return  home  to  the  old  amusement  of  torment- 
ing his  elder  brother.  Even  if  any  brain  in  Raveloe 
liad  put  the  said  two  facts  together,  I  doubt"  whether 
a  combination  so  injurious  to  tUe  prescriptive  respect- 
.ibility  of  a  flimily  with  a  mural  monument  and  ven- 
erable tankards,  would  not  have  been  suppressed  as  of 
unsound  tendency.  But  Christmas  puddings,  brawn, 
and  abundance  of  spirituous  liquors,  throwing  the 
mental  originality  into  the  channel  of  nightmare,  are 
^reat  preservatives  against  a  dangerous  spontaneity 
of  waking  thought. 

When  the  robbery  v^as  talked  of  at  the  Rainbow 
and  elsewhere,  in  gobd  company,  the  balance  contin- 
ued to  waver  between  the  rational  explanation  found- 
ed on  the  tinder-box  and  the  theory  of  an  impene- 
trable mystery  that  mocked  investigation.  The  ad- 
vocates of  the  tinder-box-and- pedlar  view  considered 
the  other  side  a  muddle-headed  and  credulous  set, 


who,  because  they  themselves  were  wall-cycd  sup- 
posed everybody  else  to  have  the  same  blank  ^utlook; 
and  the  adherents  of  the  inexplicable  more  than  liint- 
ed  that  their  antagonists. were  animals  inclined  to 
crow  before  they  had  found  any  corn — mere  skim- 
ming-dishes in  point  of  depth — whose  clearsighted- 
ness consisted  in  supposing  there  was  nothing  behind 
a  barn-fioor  because  they  couldn't  see  through  it;  so 
that,  though  their  controversy  did  not  .serve  to  elicit 
the  fact  concerning  the  robbery,  it  elicited  some  true 
opinions  of  collateral  im))ortance. 

]5ui  while  poor  Sila.s'«  loss  served  thus  to  brush  the* 
slow  current  of  Raveloe  conversation,  Silas  himself 
•was  feeling  the  withering  desolation  of  that  bereave- 
ment, about  which  his  ncighl)()urs  were  arf^uing  at 
their  ease.  To  any  one  whp  had  observed  him  before 
he  lost  his  gold,  it  might  have  seemed  that  so  wither- 
ed and  shrunken  a  life  as  his  could  haiilly  be  suscep- 
tible of  a  bruise,  could  hardly  endure  any  subtraction 
but  such  as  would  ])ut  an  end  to  it  altogether.  But 
]^\  reality  it  had  been  an  eager  life,  filled  with  imme- 
diate purpose,  which  fenced  him  in  from  the  wide, 
cheerless  unknown.  It  had  been  a  clinging  life;  and 
though  the  object  round  which  its  fibres  had  clung 
was  a  dead  disrupted  thing,  it  satisfied  the  need  for 
clinging.  But  now  the  fence  was  broken  down — the 
support  was  snatched  away.  Marner  s  thoughts  could 
no  longer  move  in  their  old  round,  and  were  baffled 
by  a  blank  like  that  which  meets  a  plodding. ant 
when  the  earth  has  -broken  away  on  its  homeward 
path.     The  loom  was  there,  and  the  wcavin-r.  and  the 


.-.••LAS     MAKNKK.  !17 

growing  pattern  in  the  cloth;  but  tlio  briglii  (rcL'sure 
ill  the  bole  rtiider  his  feet  was  gone;  the  prospect  of 
liaiidling  and  counting  it  was  gone ;  the  evening  had 
T)f)  phantasm  of  delight  to  still  the  poor  soul's  crav- 
ing. The  thought  of  the  money  he  would  get  by  his 
actual  work  could  bring  no  joy,  for  its  meagre  image 
was  only  a  fresh  reminder  of  his  loss:  and  hope  was 
too  heavily  crushed  by  the  sudden  blow  for  his  imag- 
ination U)  dwell  on  the  grov,  th  of  a  new  hoard  from 
that  small  begining. 

He  filled  up  the  blank  with  grief.  As  he  sat  weav- 
ing, he  every  now  and  then  moaned  low,  like  one  in 
j)ain:  it  was  the  sign  that  his  thoughts  had  come  round 
again  to  the  sudden  chasm — to  the  empty  evening- 
time.  And  all  the  evenings  as  he  sat  in  his  loneliness 
by  his  dull  fire,  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and 
clasped  his  head  with  his  hands,  and  moaned  very  low 
— not  as  one  who. seeks  to  be  heard. 

And  yet  he  was  not  utterly  forsaken  in  his  trouble. 
The  repulsion  Marner  had  always  created  in  his  neigh- 
bours w^as  partly  dissipated  by  the  new  light  in  which 
this  misfortune  had  shown  him.  Instead  of  a  man 
"who  had  more  cunning  than  honest  i'olks  could  come 
by,  and,  what  was  worse,  had  not.  the  inclination  to' 
use  that  cunning  in  a  neighbourly  way,  it  was  now 
apparent  that  Silas  had  not  cunning  enough  to  keep 
his  own.  He  was  generally  spoken  of  as  a  "poor 
mu^shed  creatur;"  and  that  avoidance  of  his  neicfh- 
bpurs,  which  had  before  been  referred  to  his  ill-will, 
and^to  a  probable  addiction  to  worse  company,  was 
now  considered  mere  craziness. 


SII,A6    MAliNEU. 

,  This.ebange  to  ;i  kindlier  feeling  was  shown  iu  va- 
rious ways.  The  odour  of  Christinas  cooking  being 
on  the  wiud,  it  was  the  season  when  supcrliuous  pork 
and  black  puddings  are  suggestive  of  charity  in  well- 
to-do  families;  and  Silas's  misfortune  had  brought 
him  uppermost  in  the  memory  of  Iiousokeepers  like 
]*,Irs.  0  :xood.  Mr.  Crackenthurp,  too,  while  he  admon- 
ished ^'^i!as  that  his  money  had  probably  been  taken 
from  liim  because  he  thought  too  much  of  it,  and  never 
came  to  church,  enforced  the  doctrine  by  a  present  of 
pigs'  pettitoes,  well  calculated  to  dissipate  unfounded 
prejudices  against  the  clerical  character.  Neighbours, 
who  had  nothing  but  verbal  consolation  to  give,  show- 
ed a  disposition  not  only  to  greet  Silas,  and  (li.scu:?s 
his  misfortune  at  some  length  when  they  encounter. 
him  in  the  village,  but  also  to  take  the  trouble  of  call- 
ing at  his- cottage,  and  getting  him  to  vepeat  all  the 
di'tails  on  the  very  spot;  and  then  they  would  try  to 
cheer  haiibyTsaying,  "'^''ell.  Master  Marner,  you're  no 
worse  oir  nor  other  poor  folks,  alter  all;  and  if  you  was 
to  be  crippled,  the  parish  'ud  give  you  a  'lowance." 

I  suppose  one  reason  why  we  are  seldom  able  to 
t'omfort  our  neighbours  with  our  words  is,  that  our. 
(Toodwill  ge!>  adulterated,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  before 
it  can  pass  our  lips.  We  can  s6nd  black  puddings  and 
pettitoes  without  giving  them  a  flavour  of  Q.ur  (jwn 
egoism;  but  language  is  a  stream  that  is  almost  sure  , 
to  smack  of  a  mingled  soil.  There  was  a  fair  propor- 
tion of  kindnt-s.?  in  Raveloc;  but  it  was  often  of  a 
beery  and  bungling  sort,  and  took  the  shape  least  al- 
lied to  the  compHmcnt&ry  and  hypocritical. 


MARNEK.  119 

Mr.  Maccy,  for  example,  coining  oue  evening  ex- 
pressly to  let  Silas  know  that  recent  .events  liad  given 
hini  the  advantage  of  standing  more  favourably, in  the 
opinion  of  a  man  whose  judgment  was  not  formed 
lightly,  opeiK'd  the  conversation  by  saying,  as  soon  us 
he  had  seated  himself  and  adjusted  his  thumbs — 

"Come,  Master  Marner,  why,  you've  no  call  to  sit 
a-moauing.  You're  a  deal  better  off  to  ha' lost. your 
money^  nor  to  ha  kep  it  by  foul  means,  I  used  to 
think,  when  you  first  come  into  these  parts,  as  you 
were  no  better  nof  you  should  be;  you  wer{3  younger 
a  deal  than  what  you  are  now;  but  you  were  allavs  a 
staring,  white-faced  crcatur,  partly  like  a  bald-faced 
calf,  as  I  may  say.  But  there's  no  knowing:  it  isn't 
every  ({ueer-looksed  thing  as  Old  Harry's  had  the 
making  of — I  mean,  speaking  o'  tnads  and  such;  for 
they're  often  harmless,  like,  and  useful  against  varmin. 
And  it's  pretty  much  the  same  wi'  you,  as  fur  as  I  can 
sec.  Though  as  to  the  yarbs  and  stuff  to  cure  the 
breathing,  if  you  brought  tliat  sort  o'  knowledge  from 
distant  parts,  you  might  ha'  been  a  bit  freer  of  it.  And 
if  the  knowledge  wasn't  well  come  by,  why,  you  might 
ha"  made  up  for  it  by  coming  to  church  reg'lar;  for, 
-as  for  the  children  as  the  Wise  Women  charmed,  I've 
been  at  the  christening  of  'em  again  and  again,  and 
they  took  the  water  just  as  well.  And  that's  reason- 
able; for  if  Old  Harry's  a  mind  to  do  a  bit  o'  kind- 
ness for  a  holiday,  like,  who's  got  anything  against  it? 
That's  my  thinking;  and  I've  been  clerk  o'  this  par- 
ish forty  year,  and  I  know,  when  the  parson  and  me 
does  the  cussing  of  a  Ash- Wednesday,  there's  no  cuss- 


12(1  i^ILAS    MARNEK. 

in<^  o'  folks  as  have  a  mind  to  b(^  cured  without  a  doc- 
tor, let  Kimble  'say  what  he  will.  And  so  Master 
Marnel*,  as  I  was  saying — for  there's  windings  i'  things 
as  they  may  carry  you  to  the  fur -end  o'  the  prayer- 
book  afore  you  get  back  to  'em — my  advice  is,  as  you 
keep  up  your  sperrits;  for  as  tor  tliiiiking  you're  a 
deep  un,  and  ha'  got  more  insidfe  you  nor  nil  bear  day- 
liglit,  I'm  not  o'  thslt  oi)inion  at  all,  and  so  I  tell  the 
neiifhbours.  For,  says  I,  you  talk  o'  Master  i^Ianier 
making  out  a  tale — why,  it's  nonsense,  that  is;  it  'ud 
take  a  'cute  man  to  make  a  tale  like  that;  and,  says  1, 
he  looked  as  scared  as  a  raldjit.' 

During  this  discursive  address  Silas  had  continued 
motionless  in  his  previous  attitude,  leaning  his  cDxjws 
on  his  knees,  and  pressing  his  hands  against  hi;s  head. 
Mr.  Macey,  not  doubting  that  he  had  been  listened  to, 
paused,  in  the  expectation  of  some  appreciatory  reply, 
but  Marner  remained  silent.  He  had  a  sense  that  the 
old  man  meant  to  be  good-natured  and  neighbourly; 
but  the  kindness  fell  on  him  as  sunshine  falls  on  the 
wretched — he  had  no  heart  to  taste  it,  and  felt  that  it 
was  very  far  oli'  him. 

"Come,  blaster  Marner,  have  you  got  nothing  to 
say  to  that! "  said  Mr.  Macey  at  last,  witli  a  slight  ac- 
<;ent  of  impatience. 

"Oh,"  said  Marner,  slowly,  shaking  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands,  "I  thank  you — thank  you — kindly." 

"Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure:  I  thoiight  you  would,"  said 
Mr.  Macey:  "and  my  advice  is — have  you  got  a  Sun- 
day suit?" 

-'No,"  said  Marner. 


.■511*.A.S    MARNKK  1-1 

,  "i  doubted  it  was  SO,"  said  Mr.  Macey.  "Now, let 
me  advise  you  to  get  a  Sunday  suit:  there's  Tookey, 
he's  a  poor  creatur,  but  he's  got  my  tailoring  business, 
and  some  o'  my  money  in  it,  and  he  shall  make  a  suit 
at  a  low  nrice,  and  give  you  trust,  and  then  you  can 
come  to  church,  and  be  a  bit  neighbourly.  Why 
you've  never  heard  me  say  'Amen'  since  you  come 
into  these  parts,  and  I  recommend  you  to  lose  no  time, 
for  it'll  be  poor  work  when  Tookey  has  it  all  to  him- 
self, for  I  mayn't  be  equil  to  stand  i'  the  desk  at  all, 
come  another  winter."  Here  Mr.  Macey  paused,  per- 
haps expecting  some  sign  of  emotion  in  his  hearer; 
but  not  observing  any,  he  went  on.  "And  as  for  the 
money  for  the  suit  o'  clothes,  why,  you  get  a  matter 
of  a  pound  a-week  at  your  weaving,  Master  Marner, 
and  you're  a  young  man,  eh,  for  all  you  look  so  mush- 
ed. Why,  you  couldn  t  ha'  been  five-and-twenty  when 
you  came  into  these  parts,  eh?" 

Silas  started  a  little  at  the  change  to  a  questioning 
tone,  and  answered  mildly,  "I  don't  know;  I  can't 
rightly  say — it's  a  long  while  since,'' 

After  receiving  such  an  answer  as  this,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  Mr.  Macey  observed,  later  on  in  the  even- 
ing at  the  Rainbow,  that  Marner's  head  was  "all  of  a 
muddle,"  and  that  it  was  to  be  doubted  if  he  ever 
knew  whca  Sunday  came,  round,  whicli  showed  him 
a  worse  heathen  than  many  a  dog. 

Another  of  Silas's  comforters,  besides  Mr.  Macey, 
came  to  him  with  a  mind  highly  charged  on  the  same 
topic.  This  was  Mrs.  Winthrop,  the  wheelwright's 
wife.     The  inhabitants  of  Raveloe  were  no*  severely 


122  -^ILAS    MARNl-JR. 

regulai  in  their  church-going,  and  pcrliaps  there  was 
hardly  a  person  iu  the  parish  who  would  not  have 
held  that  to  go  to  church  every  Sunday  in  the  cal- 
endar would  have  shown  a  greedy  desire  to  stand  wtH 
with  Heaven,  and  get  an  undue  advantage  over  the!  • 
neighhours — a  wish  to  be  better  than  the  '^common 
riin,''  that  would  have  implied  a  reHettion  on  those 
who  had  had  godfathers  and  godmothers  as  well  a.s 
Ihemsf'lves,  and  had  an  equal  right  to  the  burying- 
servicc.  At  the  same  time,  it  was  understood  to  be ' 
requisite  for  all  who  were  not  household  servants,  or 
young  men,  to  take  the  sacrament  at  one  of  the  great 
festivals:  Squire  Cass  himself  took  it  on  Christmas- 
day;  while  those  who  were  held  to  be  "good  livers*' 
went  to  churcli  with  greater,  though  still  with  mod- 
erate trtMpiency. 

Mrs.  \Yinthrop  w.i^  ma  .1  hi.m  .  she  was  in  all  re- 
spects a  woman  ol  scrupulous  conscience,  so  eager  for 
duties,  that  life  seemed  to  offer  them  too  scantily  un- 
less she  rose  at  half-past  four,  though  this  threw  a 
scarcity  of  work  over  the  more  advanced  hours  of  the 
morning,  which  it  was  a  constant  problem  with  her  to 
remove.  Yet  she  had  not  the  vixenish  temper  which 
is  sometimes  supposed  to  be  a  necessary  condition  of 
such  habits:  she  was  a  very  mild,  patient  woman, 
whose  natura  it  was  to  seek  out  all  the  sadder  and 
more  serious  elements  of  life,  and  pasture  her  mind 
upon  them.  She  was  the  person  always  first  thought 
of  in  Raveloe  w^hen  there  was  illness  or  death  in  a 
family,  when  leeches  were  to  be  applied,  or  there  was 
a  sudden  disappointment  in  a  monthly  nurse.     She 


complexioiicci,  Jiaving  her  iijis  always  slightly  screwed, 
a»1f  aiae  felt  herself  in  a  sick-room  with  the  doctor 
or  the  clergyman  present.  But  she  was  never  whim- 
pering; iio  one  had  seen  her  shed  tears;  she  was  sim- 
ply grave  and  inclined  to  shake  her  head,  and  sigh,  al- 
mbst  imperceptibly,  hke  a  funereal  mourner  Mho  is 
i:  M  a  relation.-  It  seemed  surprising  that  Ben  Win- 
throp,  who  loved  his  quart- pot  and  his  joke,  got  along 
so  well  with  Dolly;  but  she  took  her  husband's  jokes 
and  joviality  as  patiently  as  everything  else,  consider- 
ing that  "men  would  be  so,*'  and  viewing  the  stronger 
sex  in  the  light  of  animals  whom  it  had  pleased  Heav- 
en to  make  naturally  troublesome,  like  ])ulls  and  tur- 
•key-cocks.  - 

This  good  wholesome  woiiian  coulJ.  hardly  fail  to 
have  tier  mind  drawn  strongly  towards  Silas  Marner, 
now  that  lie  appeared  in  the  light  of  a  sufferer:  and 
one  Sunday  atternoon  she  took  her  little  boy. Aaron 
with  her,  and  v^'ent  to  call  on  Silas,  carrying  in  her 
liand  some  small  lard-cakes,  flat .  jiaste-like  articles, 
much  esteemed  in  Raveloe.  Aaron,  an  apple-cheeked 
youngster  qf  seven,  with  a  cleaii  starched  frill,  which 
looked  like  a  plate  for  the  a]  eded  all  his  ad- 

venturous curiosity  to  emboldc;.  aun  against  the  pos- 
sibility that  the  big-eyed  weaver  might  do  him  some 
bodily  injury;  and  his  -dubiety  was  much  increased 
when,  on  arriving  at  the  Stone-pits,  they  heard  the 
mysterious  sound  of  the  loom. 

"Ah,  it  is  as  I  fhouglit,"  said  Mrs.  Winthrop,  sadly. 

They  hnd  to  kno^^k  loudly  before  Silas  heard  them; 


124  SILAS    MARNEK. 

but  when  he  did  come  to  the  cioor,  he  showed  no  iir.- 
patience,  as  he  would  once  have  done,  at  a  visit  that 
had  been  unasked  for  and  unexpected.  Formerly, 
his  lieart  had  been  as  a  locked  casket,  with  its  treas- 
ure insi«le:  l)ut  now  the  casket  was  empty.,  and  the 
lock  was  broken!  Left  grojiing  in  darkness,  with  his 
prop  utterly  gone,  Silas  had  inevitably  a  sense,  though 
a  dull  and  half-despairing  one,  that  if  any  help  came 
to  him  it  must  come  from  without;  and  there  was  a 
sUght  stirring  of  expectation  at  the  sight  of  his  fellow- 
men,  a  faint  oon^iciousness  of  dei)endence  on  their 
i^oodwill.  He  opened  thn  door  wide  to  admit  Dolly, 
but  without  oth<?rwise  returning  her  greeting  than  by 
moving  the  arm-chair  a  few  inches  as  a  sign  tliat  sho^ 
was  to  sit  down  in  it.  Dolly,  as  soon  as  she  wa?  seat- 
«m1,  removed  the  white  cloth  that  covered  her  lard- 
cakes,  and  said  in  her  gravest  way — 

"I'd  a  baking  yisterday,  Master  Marncr,  and  the 
lard-cakes  turned  out  better  lior  common,  and  I'd  ha' 
asked  you  to  accept  some,  if  you'd  thought  well.  I 
don't  eat  such  things  myself'  for  a  bit  o'  bread's  w)iat 
I  like  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other;  but  men's 
stomichs  are  made  so  comical,  they  want  a  cbanijc — 
they  do,  I  I.now,  God  help  'em." 

Dolly  sighed  gently  as  she  held  out  the  cakes  to 
Silas,  who  thanked  her  kindly,  and  looked  verj'  close 
at  them,  absently,  being  accustomed  to  look  so  at  ev- 
erything he  took  into  his  hand — eyed  all  the  while  by 
the  wondering  bright  orbs  of  the  small  Aaron,  who 
liad  made  an  outwork  of  his  mother's  chair,  and  was 
peering  round  from  behind  it. 


SILAS    MAKNEK.  125 

"There's  letters  pricked  on  'em,"  said  Dolly.  "I 
can't  read  'em  myself,  and  there's  nobody,  not  Mr. 
Macey  himself;  rightly  knows  what  they  mean;  but 
they've  a  good  meaning,  for  tJioy're  the  same  as  is  on 
the  pulpit-cloth  at  church.  What  are  thev,  Aaron. 
my  dear?'" 

Aaron  retreated  completely  behind  his  outwork. 

"O  go,  that's  nauglity,"  said  his  mother,  mildly. 
•^  "Wel],whativer  the  letters  are,  they've  a  good  mean- 
ing; and  its  a  stamp  as  has  been  in  our  house,  Ben 
says,  ever  i|ice  he  was  a  little  'un  and  his  mother 
used  to  pufit  on  the  cakes,  and  I've  allays  put  it  on 
too;  for  if  there's  any  good,  we've  need  of  it  i  this 
world."  • 

"It's  I,  H.  S.'^said  Silas,  at  which  proof  of  learning 
Aaron  i)eeped  round  the  chair  again. 

"Well,  to  be  sure,  you  can  read  'em  off,''  said  Dolly. 
"Ben's  read  "em  to  me  many  and  many  a  time,  but 
they  slip  out  o'  my  mind  again;  the  more's  the  pity, 
for.  they're  good  letters,  else  they  wouldn't  be  in  the 
church;  and  so  I  prick  'em  on  all  the  loaves  and  all 
the  cakes,  though  sometimes  they  won't  hold,  because 
o'  the  rising— for,  as  I  said,  if  there's  any  good  to  be 
got,  we've  need  on  it  i'  this  world— that  we  have;  and 
I  hope  theyll  bring  good  to  you,  Master  Marner,  for 
its  wi'  that  will  I  brought  you  the  cakes:  and  you  see 
the  letters  have  held  better  nor  common."  ' 

Silas  was  as  unable  to  interpret  the  letters  as  Dolly, 
but  there  was  no  possibility  of  misunderstanding  the' 
desire  to  give  comfort  that  made  itself  heard  in  her 
quiet  tones.      He  said,  witli  more  feeling  than  before 


126  SILAS    MAKNEE. 

— "Thank  you — tliaiik  you  i.iualy. "  Bui  he  laid 
down  the  cakd  and  seated  himself  absently — drearily 
unconscious  of  any  distinct  benefit  towards  whicli  the 
cake  and  the  letters,  or  even  kindness,  could- 

tend  for  him. 

"Ah,  if  there's  good  anywhere,  \>  „  -..jdolit," 
repeated  Dolly,  who  did  not  lightly  forsake*  ;i  service- 
able phrase.  She  looked  at  Silas  pityingly  as  she 
went  on.  "But  you  didn't  hear  the  church-bells  this 
morning,  Master  Marner.  I  doubt  you^dn't  know 
it  was  Sunday.  Living  so  lone  here, ^u  lose  your 
count,  I  daresay;  and  then,  when  your  loom  makes  a 
noise,  you  can't  hear  the  bells,  more  partic'lar  now  ihv. 
frost  kills  the  sound.'' 

"Yes,  I  did;  I  heard  cm,  :-;ii<i  oiiu:>,  lo  '.■»  iiom  k^uw- 
day  bells  were  a  mere  accident  of  ;the  day,  and  not 
part  of  its  sacredness.  There  had  been  no  bells  in 
Lantern  Yard.  ^ 

"Dear  heart!"  said  Dolly,  pausing  belbrc  she  spoke 
again.  "But  what  a  pity  it  is  \'^u  :»hould  work  of  a 
Sunday,  and  not  clean  yourself — if  you  didnt  go  to 
church ;  for  if  you'd  a  roasting  bit,  it  might  be  as  you 
couldn't  leave  it,  being  a  lone  man.  But  there's  the 
bakehus,  if  you  could  make  up  your  mind  to  spend  a 
twopence  on  the  oven  now  and  then, — not  every 
week,  in  course — I  shouldn't  lik«  to  do  that  i^iyself, — 
you  might  carry  your  bit  o'  dinner  there,  for  it's  noth- 
ing but  right  to  have  a  bit  o' summat  hot  of  a  Sun- 
day, and  not  to  make  il  as  you  can't  know  your  din- 
ner from  Saturday.  But  now,  upo' Christmas-day, 
this  blessed  Christmas  as  is  ever  coming,  if  you  was 


SILAS    3! ..,;..  127 

to  take  your  dinner  to  the  bakehus,  and  go  to  cliurch, 
and  see  the  holly  and  the  few,  and  hear  the  anthini, 
:ind  then  take  the  sacramen',  you'd  be  a  deal  the  bet- 
ter, and  you'd  know  which  end  you  stood  on,  and  you 
coukl  piit»your  trust  i'  Them  as  knows  better  nor  we 
do,  sccin'  you'd  ha'  done  what  it  lies  on  us  all  to  do." 

Dolly's  exhortation,  which  was  an  unusually  long 
effort  of  speech  for  her,  was  uttered  in  the  soothing 
]>crsuasive  tone  with  which  she  would  have  tried  to 
prevail  on  a  sick  man  to  take  his  medicine,  or  a  basin 
of  gruel  for  which  he  had  no  appetite.  Silas  had  nev- 
er before  been  closely  urged  on  the  point  of  his  ab- 
sence from  church,  which  had  only  been  thought  of 
lis  a  part  of'  his  general  queerness ;  and  he  was  too 
direct  and  simple  to  evade  Dolly's  appeal. 

"Nay,  nay,"  he  said,  "I  know  nothing  of  church. 
Tve  never  been  to  church*"' 

"No!"  said  Dolly,  in  a  low  tone  of  wonderment. 
Then  bethinking  herself  of  Silas's  advent  from  an  un- 
known country,  she  said,  "  Could  it  ha'  been  as  they'd 
no  church  were  you  was  born  ?" 

"  O  yes,"  ^id  Silas,  meditatively,  sitting  in  his  usu- 
al posture  of  leaning  on  his  knees,  and  supporting  his 
head.  "  There  was  churches — a  many — it  was  a 
big  town.  B?  ;  I  knew  nothing  of  'em — I  went  to 
chapel.' ■ 

Dolly  was  much  puzzled  at  this  new  word,  but  she 
was  rather  afraid  of  inquiring  further,  lest  "  chapel " 
might  mean  some  haunt  of  wickedness.  After  a  little 
thought,  she  said — 

"Well,  Master  Marner,  it's  niver  too  fate  to  turn 


128  SILAS    MAKNER. 

over  a  new  leaf,  and  if  you've  niver  had  no  church, 
there's  no  telhng  the  good  it'll  do  you.  For  I  I'cel  so 
set  up  and  coni  for  table  a^niver  was,  when  I've  been 
and  hoard  the  prayers,  and  the  singin^^^  to  the  praise 
and  glory  o'  God,  as  Mr.  iSIacey  gives  out — and  Mr. 
Crackenthorp  saying  good  words,  and  more  partic'lar 
on  Sacramcn'  Day;  and  if  a  bit  o'  trouble  comes,  I 
feel  as  I  can  put  up  wi'  it,  for  I'vu  looked  for  help  i 
the  right  quarter,  and  gcv  myself  up  to  Them  as  we 
must  all  give  ourselves  up  to  at  the  last;  and  if  we^n 
done  our  part,  it  isn't  to  be  believed  as  Them  as  arc 
above  us  'ull  be  worse  nor  we  are,  and  come  short  o' 
Thcirn." 

Poor  Dolly's  exposition  of  her  simple  Ravcloe  the- 
ology fell  rather  unmeaningly  on  Silas's  ears,  for  there 
was  no  word  in  it  that  could  rouse  a  memory  of  what 
he  had  known  as  religion,  and  his  comprehension  was 
quite  baffled  by  the  plural  pronoun,  which  was  no 
heresy  of  Dolly's,  but  only  her  way  of  avoiding  a  pre- 
sumptuous familiarity.  He  remained  silent,  not  feel- 
ing inclined  to  assent  to  the  part  of  Dolly's  speech 
which  he  fully  understood — her  recommendation  that 
he  should  go  to  church.  Indeed,  Silas  was  so  unac- 
customed to  talk  beyond  the  brief  questions  and  an- 
swers necessary  for  the  transaction  of  his  simple  bjjsi- 
ness,  that  words  did  not  easily  come  to  him  without 
the  urgency  of  a  distint^t  purpose. 

But  now,  liule  Aaron,  having  become  used  to  tiic 
weaver's  awful  presence,  had  advanced  to  his  mother's 
side,  and  Silas^  seeming  to  notice  him  for  the  first  time, 
tried  to  return  Dolly's  signs  of  goodwill  by  otfering 


.SIJLAS    MAKNKK.   '  I2ij 

the  lad  a  bitof  la'rd-cake.  Aaron  shrank  back  a  lit- 
tle, and  rubbed  liis  bead  against  his  mother's  shoulder, 
but  still  Uiought  the  piece  of  cake  north  the  risk  of 
putting  his  hand  out  for  it. 

"O,  for  shame,  Aaron,''  said  his  mother,  taking  liira 
on  her  lap,  however;  'Svhy,you  don't  want  cake  again 
yet  awhile.  He's  wonderful  hearty,"  she  went  on,  with 
a  little  sigh— "that  he  is,  God  knows.  He's  my  youn^j- 
cst  son,  and  we  spoil  him  sadly,  for  cither  me  or  the 
father  must  allays  hev  him  in  our  sight— that  we 

must." 

• 

t^he  stroked  Aaron's  brown  head,  and  thought  it 

must  do  Master  Marncr  good  to  see  such  a  "pictur 

of  a  child."     But  Marner,  on  the  other  side  of  the 

hearth,  saw  the  neat-featured  rosy  face  as  a  mere  dim 

round,  with  two  dark  spots  in  it. 

"And  he's  got  a  voice  like  a  bird— you  wouldn't 
think,"  Dolly  went  on  ;  "ho  can  sing  a  Christmas  car- 
ril  as  his  father's  taught  him;  and  I  take  it  for  a  to- 
ken as  he'll  come  lo  good,  as  he  can  learn  the  good 
tunes  so  quick.  Come,  Aaron,  stan'  up  and  sina  the 
carril  to  Master  Marncr,  come.' 

Aaron  replied  by  rubbing  his  forehead  'against  his 
mother's  shoulder. 

"  G,  that's  naughty,"  said  Dolly,  gently.    "Stan'  up, 
when  mother  tells  you,  and  let  me  hold  the  cake  till 
ou've  done." 

Aaron  was  not  indisposed  to  display  his  talents  ' 
even  to  an  ogre,  under  protecting  circumstances;  and 
after  a  tew  more  signs  of  coyness,  consisting  chiefly 
in  rubbing  the  backs  of  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  and 


130  ttlLAS    MARNKK. 

then  peeping  between  them  at  Master  Marncr,  to  see 
if  he. looked  anxious  for  the  "carril,"  he  at  length  al- 
lowed his  head  to  be  duly  adjusted,  and  standing  be- 
hind the  table,  which  let  him  appear  above  it  only  as 
far  as  his  broad  frill,  so  that  he  looked  like  a  cher- 
ubic head  untroubled  with  a  body,  he.  began  with  a 
clear  chirp,  and  in  a  melody  tiiat  had  the  rhythm  of 
ail  industrious  hammer, — 

"  (io.l  rest  you  iiiprry,  gcntlcmeo, 

Lei  nothing  y>m  dismay, 
For  Jfsus  Clirist  <".ir  Saviour 

Wus  born  on  Cliiiitnms-day. ' 

Dolly  listened  with  a  devout  look,  glancing  at  Mar- 
ner  in  some  confidence  that  this  strain  would  help  to 
allure  him  to  church. 

"That's  Christmas  music,"  she  said,  when  Aaron 
had  ended,  and  iiad  secured  his  piece  of  cake  again. 
"There's  no  other  music  equil  to  the  Christmas  music 
— *Hark  the  crol  angils  sing.'  And  you  may  judge 
what  it  is  at  church.  Master  Marner,  with  the  bassoon 
and  the  voices,  as  you  can't  help  thinking  you've  got 
to  a  better  place  a'ready — for  I  wouldn't  speak  ill  o' 
this  world,  seeing  as  Them  put  us  in  it  as  knows  best; 
but  what  wi'  the  drink,  and  the  quarrelling,  and  the 
bad  illnesses,  and  the  hard  dying,  as  I've  seen  times 
and  times,  one's  thankful  to  hear  of  a  better.  The 
boy  sings  pretty,  don't  he.  Master  Marncr?" 

"Yes,"  said  Silas,  absently,  '*  very  pretty." 

The  Christmas  carol,  with  its  hammer-like  rhythm, 
had  fallen  on  his  ears  us  strange  music,  quite  unlike  a 
hymn,  and  could  have  none  of  the  effect  Dolly  con- 


SILAe^MARNER.  131 

templated.  But  he  wanted  to  show  her  t'lat  he  was 
,!^n'ateful,  and  the  only  mode  tiiat  occurred  to  hiin  was 
to  ofier  Aaron  a  bit  more  cake. 

"O,  no,  t'liank  3^00,  Master  Marnc:,  -..id  Doliy, 
holding  down  Aaron's  willing  hands.  "We  musl  '. c 
going  liome  now.  And  so  I  wish  you  good-by,  Mas- 
ter Marnev;  and  if  you  ever  fee!  anyways  bad  in  your 
inside,  as  you  can't  fend  for  yourself,  I'll  come  and 
clean  up  for  you,  and  get  you  a  *bit  o'  victual,  and 
willing.  But  I  beg  and  pray  of  you  to  leave  ofi' 
weaving  of  a  Sunday,  for  it's  bad  for  soul  and  body — 
and  the  money  as  comes  i'  that  way  'nil  be  a  bad  bed 
to  lie  down  on  at  the  last,  if  it  doesn't  fly  away,  no- 
body knows  where,  like  the 'white  frost.  And  you'll 
excuse  me  being  that  free  with  you,  Master  Mar- 
ncr,  for  I  wisli  you  well — I  do.  Make  your  bow, 
Aaron."' 

Silas  said  *'Good-by,  and  thank  you,  kindly,"  as  he 
opened  the  door  for  Dolly,  but  ho  couldn't  help  feel- 
ing relieved  when  she  was  gone — relieved  that  he 
might  weave  again  and  moan  at  his  ease.  Her  sim- 
ple view  of  life  and  its  comforts,  by  which  she  had 
tried  to  cheer  him*  was  ohly  like  a  report  of  unknown 
objects,  wdiich  his  imagination  could  not  fashion.  The 
fountains  of  human  love  and  divine  faith  had  not  yet 
been  unlocked,  and  his  soul  was  still  the  shrunken 
rivulet,  with  only  this  dilference,  that  its  little  groo\ 
of  ^iand  was  blocked  up,  and  it  wandered  confusediy 
against  dark  obstruction. 

And  so,  notwithstanding  the  honest  persuasions 
of  Mr.  Maccy  and  Dolly  Winthrop,.  Silas  spent  his 


132  SILAS    MAKNEK. 

Christmas-day  in  loneliness,  eating  his  meat  in  snd- 
ness  of  heart,  though  the  meat  had  come  to  him  as  a 
neighbourly  present.  In  the  morning  he  looked  out 
on  the  black  frost  that  seemed  to  press  cnully  on 
every  blade  of  grass,,  while  the  half-icy  red  pool  shiv- 
ered under  the  bitter  Mind;  but  towards  evening  the 
snowHaegan  to  fall,  and  curtailed  from  him  oven  that 
dreary  look,  shutting  him  closer  up  with  his  narrow 
o-rief.  And  he  sat  in  his  robbed  home  through  the 
livelong  evening,  not  caring  to  close  liis  shutters  or 
lock  his  door,  pressing  his  head  between  his  hands 
and  moaning,  till  the  cold  grasped  him  and  told  him 
that  his  fire  was  grey. 

Nobody  in  this  world  but  himself  knew  that  he  was 
the  same  Silas  Marner  who  had  once  loved  his  fellow 
with  tender  love,  and  .trusted  in  an  unseen  good- 
ness. Even  to  himself  that  past  experience  had  be- 
come dim. 

But  in  Raveloc  village  the  bells  rang  merrily,  and 
the  church  was  fuller  than  all  through  the  rest  of  the 
year,  with  red  faces  among  the  abundant  dark-green 
boughs — faces  prepared  for  a  longer  service  than  usu- 
al by  an  odorous  breakfast  of  toast  and  ale.  Those 
green  boughs,  the  hymn  and  anthem  never  heard  biit 
at  Christmas — even  the  Athanasian  Creed,  which  was 
discriminated  from  the  others  only  as  being  longer 
and  of  exceptional  virtue,  since  it  was  only  road  on 
rare  occasions — brought  a  vague  exulting  sense,  for 
which  the  grown  men  could  as  little  have  found  words 
as  the  children,  that  something  great  and  mysterious 
had   been  done  for  them  in  heaven  above,  and  in 


earth  below,  which  they  were  appropriating  by  their 
presence.  And  then  the  red  faces  made  their  way 
through  the  black  biting  frost  to  their  own  homes, 
i'eehng  themselves  free  for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  eat, 
drink,  and  bo  merry,  and  using  tiiat  Christian  f;  ■""V^:-; 
without  diffidence. 

At  Squire  Cass's  family  parly  that  day  nobody 
mentioned  Dunstan  —  nobody  was  sorry  for  his  ab- 
sence, or  feared  it  would  be  too  long.  The  doctor 
and  his  wife,  uncle  and  aunt  Kimble,  were  there,  and 
the  annual  Christmas  talk  was  carried  tlu*ough  with- 
out any  omissions,  rising  to  the  climax  of  Mr.  Kim- 
ble's experience  when  he  walked  the  London  hos- 
pitals thirty  years  back,  together  with  striking  pro- 
fessional anecdotes  tlien  gathered.  Whereupon  cards 
followed,  with  aunt  Kimble's  annual  failure  to  follow 
suit,  and  uncle  Kimbles  irascibility  concerning  the 
odd  trick  which  was  rarely  explicable  to  him,  when  it 
was  not  on  his  side,  without  a  general  visitation  of 
tricks  to  see  that  they  "were  formed  on  sound  princi- 
ples: the  whole  being  accompanied  by  a  strong  steam- 
ing odour  of  spirits- and- water. 

But  the  party  on  Christmas-day,  being  a  strictly 
family  party,  was  not  the  pre-eminently  brilliant  cele- 
bration of  the  season  at  the  Red  House.  It  was  the 
great  dance  on  New  Year's  Eve  that  made  the  glory 
of  Sq\iire  Cass's  hospitality,  as  of  his  forefathers',  time 
out  of  mind.  This  was  the  occasion  when  all  the  so- 
ciety of  Raveloe  and  Tarley,  whether  old  acquaint- 
ances separated  by  long  rutty  distances,  or  cooled  ac- 
quaintances separated  by  ^misunderstandings  concern- 


t  ,)■ 


ji!"  riniaway  caivc:-.  w.  ...  jiuiinlaucL  ■  .v.^w.^^v..*  w..  ;ii 
termittent.  coiidescGusion,  counted  on  meet: ng  and  (<u 
cotnporting  themselves  with  mutual  appmpriateness. 
This  was  the  occasion  on  v,  hich  fair  dames  who  came 
on  pillions  sent  their  bandboxes  Ijcfore  them,  supplied 
with  more  than  their  evening  costume;  for  the  feast 
was  not  to  end  with  a  single  evening,  like  a  paltry 
town  entertainment,  where  the  whole  supply  of  eata- 
bles is  put  on  the  talkie  at  once,  and  bedding  is  scanty. 
The  Red  House  was  provisioned  as  if  for  a  siege;  and 
as  for  the  spare  feather-lieds  ready  to  be  laid  on  floors, 
thev  were  as  plentiful  as  might  naturally  be  expected 
in  a  family  that  had  killed  its  own  geese  for  many 
generations. 

Godfrey  Cass  ^^ci^  hmmvui-  ]ui>wiiil  to  this  New 
Year's  Eve  with  a  foolish  reckless  longing,  that  made 
him  half  deaf  to  his  importunate  companion.  Anxiety. 

"Dunsey  will  be  coming  home  soon:  there  will  be 
a  threat  blow-np,  and  how  will  you  bribe  his  ii\n\'c  to 
silence'?"  said  Anxiety. 

"0,  he  won't  come  home  before  New  Year's  Eve, 
perhaps,"  said  Godfrey;  "and  I  shall  sit  by  Nancy 
then,  and  dance  with  her,  and  get  a  kind  look  from 
her  in  spite  of  herself.'' 

"But  money  is  wanted  in  another  quarter,"  said 
Anxiety,  in  a  louder  voice,  "and  how  will  you  get  it 
without  selling  your  mother's  diamond  pin?  And  if 
you  don't  get  it ...  .  !"' 

*'Well,  but  something  may  happen  to  make  things 
easier.  At  any  rate,  there's  one  pleasure  for  me  clo«:f^ 
at  hand:  Nancy  is  coming." 


SILAS    MAKNEk  1  35 

"Yes,  and  suppose  your  father  should  bring  mat- 
tors  to  a  p£«s  that  will  oblige  }ou  to  decline  marryiiTr 
her — and  to  give  your  reasons?" 

*'Hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  worry  me.  I  ran 
see  Nancy's  eyes,  just  as  they  will  look  at  me,  and  feel 
her  hand  in  mine  alreiuly."'  ^ 

But  Anxiety  Went  on,  though  in- noisy  Christmas 
company;  refusing  to  be  utterly  quieted  even  by  much 
drinking. 


8ILAS    MAENER. 


CHAPTF.R  XI. 

Some  women,  Intrant,  would,  not  appear  to  advan- 
tage seated  on  a  pillion,  and  attired  in '  a  drab  Joseph 
and  a  drab  beaver-bonnet,  with  a  crown  resembling  a 
small  stew-pan:  for  a  garment  suggesting  a  coach- 
man's greatcoat,  cut  out  under  an  exiguity  of  cloth 
Ihat  would  only  allow  of  miniature  capes,  is  not  well 
adapted  to  conceal  deficiencies  of  contour,  nor  is  drab 
a  color  that  will  throw  sallow  cheeks  into  lively  con- 
trast. It  was  all  the  greater  triumph  to  Miss  Nancy 
Lammeter's  beauty  that  she  looked  thoroughly  be- 
witching in  that  costume,  as,  seate^l  on  the  pillion  be- 
hind her  tail,  erect  father,  she  held  one  arm  round  him, 
and  looked  down,  with  open-eyed  anxiety,  at  the^ 
treacherous  snow-covered  pools  and  puddles,  which 
sent  up  formidable  splashings  of  mud  under  the  stamp 
of  Dobbin's  foot.  A  painter  would,  perhaps,  have  pre- 
ferred her  in  those  moments  when  she  was  free  from 
self  consciousness ;  but  certainly  the  bloom  on  her 
cheeks  was  at  its  highest  point  of  contrast  with  the  sur- 
rounding drab  when  she  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  Red 
House,  and  saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  ready  to  hft  her  from 
the  pillion.  *  She  wished  her  sister  Priscilla  had  come 
up  at  the  same  time  ."vyith  the  servant,  for  then  she 
would  have  contrived  that  Mr.  Godfrey  should  have 
lifted  off  Prigcilla:  first,  and,  in  the  moan  time,  she 


SILAS    MARNER.  137 

would  haverpersuvifled"  her  father  to  go  round  to  the 
horse-block  instead  of  alighting  at  the  door-steps.  It 
was  very  painful,  when  you  had  made  it  quite  clear  to 
a  young  man.  that  you  were  determined  not  to  marry 
Irim,  however  much  he  might  wish  it,  that  he  would 
still  continue  to  pay  you  marked  attentions;  besides, 
why  didn't  he  always  show  the  same  attentions,  if  he 
meant  them  sincerely,  iTfstead  of  being  so  strange  as 
Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  was,  sometimes  behaving  as  if  he 
didn't  want  to  speak  tb  lier,  and  taking  no  notice  of 
her  for  weeks  and  weeks,  and  then,  all  on  a  sudden, 
almost  making  love  again?  Moreover,  it  was  quite 
plain  he  had  no  real  love  for  her.  else  he  would  not 
let  people  have  that  to  say  of  him  which  they  did  say. 
Did  he  suppose  that  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter  was  to  be 
won  by  any  man,  squire  or  no  Squire,  who  led  a  bad 
life?  That  was  not  what  she  ha&  been  used  to  see  in 
her  own  father,  who  was  the  soberest  and  best  man 
in  that  country-side,  only  a  little  hot  and  hasty  now  and 
then,  if.things  were  not  done  to  the  minute. 

All  these  thoughts  rushed  through  Miss  Nancy's 
mind,  in  their  habitual  succession,  in  Ihe  moments  be- 
tween her  first  sis^ht  of  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  standing  at 
the  thior  and  her  own  :irrival  there.  Happily,  the 
Squire  came  out  too,  and  gave  a  loud  greeting  to  her 
father,  so  that,  somehow,  under  cover  of  this  noise,  she 
seemed  to  find  concealment  from  her  confusion  and 
neglect  of  any  suitably  formal  behaviour,  while  she 
was  being  lifted  from  the  pillion  by  strong  arms,  which 
.«:ecmed  to  find  her  ridiculously  small  and  light.  And 
tliere  was  the  best  reason  for  hastening  into  the  house 


138  SILAS    MARNER. 

at  once,  since  the  snow  was  beginning  to  lall  again, 
threatening  an  unpleasant  journey  for  such  guests  as 
were  still  on  the  road.  These  were  a  small  minority; 
for  already  the  afternoon  was  beginning  to  declini;, 
and  there  would  not  be  much  time  for  the  ladies  who 
came  from  a  distance  to  attire  themselves  in  readiness 
for  the  early'toa  which  was  to*fnspirit  thorn  for  the 
dance. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  voices  through  the  house  as 
Miss  Nancy  entered,  mingled  with  the  scrape  of  a  fid- 
dle preluding  in  the  kitchen;  but  the  Lammeters 
were  guests  whose  arrival  had  evidently  been  thought 
of  so  much  that  it  had  been  watched  for  from  the  win- 
dows, for  Mrs.  Kimble,  who  did  the  honours  at  the  Red 
House  on  these  great  occasions,  came  forward  to  meet 
Miss  Nancy  in  the  hall,  and  conduct  her  up-stairs. 
Mrs.  Kimble  was  the  Squire's  sister,  as  well  as  the 
doctor's  wife — a  double  dignity,  with  which  her  diam- 
eter was  in  direct  proportion;  so  that,  a  journey  up- 
stairs being  rather  fatiguing  to  her,  she  did  not  oppose 
Miss  Nancy's  request  to  be  allowed  to  find  her  way 
alone  to  the  Blue  Room,  where  the  Miss  Lammeters' 
bandboxes  had  been  deposited  on  their' arrival  in  the 
morning. 

There  was  hardly  a  bedroom  in  the.  house  where 
feminine  compliments  were  not  passing  and  feminine 
toilettes  going  forward,  in  various  stages,  in  space  niade 
scanty  by  extra  beds  spread  upon  the  floor;  and  Miss 
Nancy,  as  she  entered  the  Blue  Room,  had  to  make 
her  little  formal  curtsy  to  a  group  of  six.  On  the  one 
hand,  there  were  ladies  no  less  important  than  the  two 


U.AS    MARNER.  139 

Miss  Grunns,  the  vviiio-moicliant's  daughters  irom  Ly- 
thei'ly,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  with  the  light- 
est skirts  and  the.  shortest  waists,'  and  gazed  at  by 
Miss  Ladbrook  (of  the  OM  Pastures)  with  a  shyness 
not  unsiistaincd  by  inward  criticism.  Partly,  Miss 
Lailbrook  felt  that  her  own  .skirt  must  be  regarded  as 
unduly  lax  by  the  Miss  Gunns,  and  }3artly,  that  it  was 
a  pity  the  Miss  Gunns  did  not  show  that  judgment 
which  she  herself  would  show  if  she  were  in  their 
place,  by  stopping  a  little  on  this  side  of  the  fashion. 
On  the  otlier  hand,  Mrs.  Ladbrook  was  standing  in 
skullcap  and  front,  with  her  turban  in  her  hand,  curt- 
sying and  smihng  blanrlly,  and  saying,  "After  you, 
jna'am,"  to  another  lady  in  similar  circumstances,  who 
had  politely  offered  the  precedence  at  the  looking- 
•;iass. 

But  Miss  Nancy  had  no  sooner  made  her  curtsy 
than  an  elderly  lady  came  forward,  whose  full  white 
muslin  kerchief^  and  mob-cap  round  her  curls  of 
'  smooth  grey  •  hair,  were  in  daring  contrast  with  the 
puii'cd' yellow  satins  and  top-knotted  caps  of  her  neigh- 
bours. •  She  approached  Miss  Nancy  with  much  prim- 
ness, and  said,  with  a,  slow,  treble  suavity, 

''  Niece,  1  hope  I  see  you  well  in  health.''  Miss 
Nancy  kissed  her  aunt's  cheek  dutifully,  and  answer- 
ed, with  the  same  sort  of  amiable  primness,  "  Quite 
well,  I  thank  you,  aunt,  and  I  hope  I  see  you  the 
same."  • 

"  Thank  you,  niece,  I  keep  my  health  for  the  pres- 
ent.    And  how  is  my  brother-in-law  ?" 

Thesp  rbiliful  questions  and  answers  were  continued 


14l>  SILA.S     MAlcNER.. 

until  it  was  ascertained  in  detail  that  the  Lanmieters 
were  all  as  well  as  usual,,  and  the  0.^ goods  likewise, 
also  that  niece  Priscilla  niu¥:t  certainly  arrive  shortly, 
and  that  travelling  on  pillions  in  snowy  weather  was 
unpleasant,  though  a  jo.sepli  was  a  great  protection. 
Then  Nancy  was  Ibrnially  introduced  to  her  aunt's 
visitors,  the  Miss  (runns,-  as  being  the  daughters  of  a 
mother  known  to  their  mother,  though  now  for  the 
first  time  induced  to  make  a  journey  into  those  parts;* 
and  these  ladies  were  so  taken  by  surprise  at  finding 
such  a  loyely  face  and  figure  in  an  out-of-the-way 
country  place,  that  they  began  to  feel  some  curiosity 
about  the  dress  she  would  put  on  when  she  took  off 
her  Joseph.  Miss  Nancy,  Whose  thoughts  were  al- 
ways conducted  with  the  propriety  and  moderation 
conspicuous  in  her  manners,  remarked  to  herself  that 
the  Miss  Gunns  were  rather  hard-featured  than  other- 
wise, and  that  such  very  low  dresses  that  they  wore 
might  have  been  attributed  to  vanity  if  their  shoul- 
ders had  been  pretty,  but  that,  being  as  they  were,  it 
was  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they  showed  their 
necks  from  a  love  of  display,  but  rather  from-  some 
obligation  not  inconsistent  with  sense  and  modesty. 
She  felt  convinced,  as  she  opened  her  box,  that  this 
must  be  her  aunt  Osgood's  opinion,  for  Miss  Nancy's 
mind  resembled  her  aunt's  to  a  degree  that  every  body 
said  was  surprising,  considering  the  kinship  was  on 
Mr.  Osgood's  side ;  and  though  you  might  no.t  have 
supposed  it  from  the  formality  of  their  greeting,  there 
was  a  devoted  attachment  and  mutual  admiration  be- 
tween aunt  and  niece.     Even  Miss  Nancy's  refusal  of 


SILAS    MAKKEK.  141 

hei'  cousin  Gilbert  Osgood  (on  the  ground  solely  that 
lie  was  her  cousin),  though  it  had  grieved  her  aunt 
greatly,  had  not  in  the  least  cooled  the  preference 
which  had  determined  her  U)  leave  Nancy  several  of 
her  hereditary  ornaments,  lo(  Gilbert's  future  wife  be 
whom  she  might. 

Three  of  the  ladies  quickly  retired,  but  the  Miss 
Gunns  were  quite  content  that  Mrs.  Osgood's  inchna- 
tion  to  remain  with  her  niece  gave  them  also  a  reason 
for  staying  to  see  the  rustic  beauty's  toilette.     And  it 
was  really  a  pleasure — from  the  first  opening  of  the 
bandbox,  where  everything  smelt  of  lavender  and  rose- 
leaves,  to  the  clasping  of  the  small  coral  necklace  that 
fitted  closely  round  her  little  white  neck.     Everything 
belonging  to  Miss  Nancy  was  of  delicate  purity  and 
nattiness ;  not  a  crease  was  where  it  had  no  business 
to  be,  not  a  bit  of  her  linen  professed  whiteness  with- 
out fulfilling  its  profession ;  the  very  pins  on  her  pin- 
cushion were  stuck  in  after  a  pattern  from  which  she 
was  careful  to  allow  no  aberration;  and  as  for  her 
own  person,  it  gave  the  same  idea  of  perfect  unvary- 
ing neatness  as  the  body  of  a  little  bird.     It  is  true 
that  her  light-brown  hair  was  cropped  behind  Hke  a 
boy's,  and  was  dressed  in  front  in  a  number  of  flat 
rings,  that  lay  quite  away  from-  her  face;  but  there 
was  no  sort  of  coiffure  that  could  make  Miss  Nancy's; 
cheek  and  neck  look  otjierwise  than  pretty;  and  when 
at  last  she  stood  complete  in  her  silvery  twilled  silk, 
her  lace  tucker,  her  coral  necklace,  and  coral  ear- 
drops, the  Miss  Gunns  could  see  nothing  to  criticise 
except  her  hands,  which  bore  the  traces  of  butter- 


142  SILAS    MAENEK. 

making,  cheese-crushing,  and  even  still  coarser  work. 
But  Miss  Nancy  was  not  ashamed  of  that,  for  even 
while  she  was  dressing  she  narrated  to  her  aunt  how- 
she  and  Priscilla  had  packed  their  boxes  yesterday, 
because  this  morning  was  baking  morning,  and  since 
they  were  leaving  home,  it  was  desirable  to  make  a 
good  supply  of  meat  pies  for  the  kitchen;  and  as  she 
concluded  this  judicious  remark,  she  turned  to  the 
Miss  Gunns  that  she  might  not  commit  the  rudeness 
of  not  including  them  in  the  conversation.  The  Miss 
Gunns  smiled  stiffly,  and  thought  what  a  pity  it  was 
that  these  rich  country  people,  wdio  could  afford  to  buy 
such  good  clothes  (really  Miss  Nancy's  lace  and  silk 
were  very  costly,)  should  be  brought  up  in  utter  i<^no- 
rance  and  vulgarity.  She  actually  said  "mate 
"meat,"  "'appcn"  for  "perhaps,"  and  "oss"  for  ''honsc, ' 
which,  to  young  ladies  living  in  good  Lytherly  socie- 
ty, who  liabitually  said  'orse,  even  in  domestic  j)riva- 
cy,  and  only  said  "appen  on  the  right  occasions,  was 
necessarily  shocking.  Miss  Nancy,  indeed,  had  never 
been  to  any  school  higher  than  Dame  Tedman's:  her 
acquaintance  with  profane  literature  hardly  went  be- 
yond the  rhymes  she  had  worked  in  her  large  sampler 
under  the  lamb  and  the  shepherdess;  and  in  order  to 
balance  an  account,  she  was  obhged  to  effect  her  sub- 
traction by  removing  visible  metallic  shillings  and  six- 
pences from  a  visible  metallic  toial.-  There  is  hardly  a 
maid  servant  in  these  days  who  is  not  better  informed 
than  Miss  Nancy;  yet  she  had  the  essential  attributes 
of  a  lady — high  veracity,  delicate  honour  in  her  deal- 
ings, deference  to  others,  and  refined  personal  habile 


81LA6    MAKNEJv.  143 

— and  lest  thebc  should  not  suffice  to  convince  gram- 
matical fair  ones  that  her  feehngs  can  at  all  resemble 
theirs,  I  will  add  that  she  was  slightly  proud  and  ex- 
acting, and  as  constant  in  her  affection  towards  a  base- 
less opinion  as  towards  an  erring  lover. 

The  anxiety  about  sister  Priscilla,  wjiich  had  grown 
rather  actiye  by  the  time  the  coral  necklace  Was  clasp- 
ed, was  happily  ended  by  the  entrance  of  that  cheer- 
ful-looking lady  herself,  with  a  face  made  blowsy  by 
cold  and  damp.  After  the  first  questions  and  greet- 
ings, she  turned  to  Nancy,  and  .surveyed  her  from 
head  to  foot— then  wheeled  her  round,  to  ascertain 
that  the  back  view  was  equally  faultless. 

"What  do  you  think  o'  these  gowns,  aunt  Osgood?'' 
said  Priscilla,  while  Nancy  helped  her  to  unrobe. 

"Very  handsome,  indeed,  niece,"  said  Mrs.  Osgood, 
with  a  slight  increase  of  formality.  She  always 
thought  niece  Priscilla  too  rough. 

"I'm  obliged  to  have  the  same  as  Nancy,  you  know, 
for  all  I'm  five  yeai:s  older  and  it  makes  me  look  yal-' 
low;  for  she  never  will  have  anything  without  I  have 
mine  just  like  it,  because  she  wants  us  to  look  like  sis- 
ters.    And  I  tell  her  folks  'uU  think  it's  my  weakness 
makes  me  fancy  as  I  shall  look  pretty  in  what  she 
looks  pretty  in.     For  I  ain  ugly— there's  no  denying 
that:  I  feature  my  father's  family.     But,  law!  I  don't 
mind,  do  you?"     Priscilla  here  turned  to  the  Miss 
Gunns,  rattling  on  in  too  much  preoccupation  with 
the  delight  of  talking,  to  notice  that  her  candour  was 
not  appreciated.     "The  pretty  'uns  do  for  fly-catchers 
—they  keep  the  men  off  us.     I've  no  opinion  o'  the 


144  SILAS    MAKNER. 

men,  Miss  Grunn — I  don't  know  what  you  have.  And 
as  for  fretting  and  stewing  about  what  theijW  think  of 
you  from  morning  till  night,  and  making  your  life  un- 
easy about  what  they're  doing  when  they're  out  o' 
your  sight — as  I  tell  Nancy,  it's  a  folly  no  woman  need 
be  guilty  of,  if  she's  got  a  good  father  and  a  good 
home:  let  her  leave  it  to  them  as  have  got  no  fortin,  and 
can't  help  themselves.  As  1  say,  Mr.  Have-your-own- 
way  is  the  best  husband,  and  the  only  one  I'd  ever 
promise  to  obey.  ,  I  know  it  isn't  pleasant,  when  you've 
been  used  to  living  in  a  big  way,  and  managing  hogs- 
heads and  all  that,  to  go  and  put  your  nose  in  by 
somebody  else's  fireside,  or  to  sit  down  by  yqurself  to 
a  scrag  or  a  knuckle:  but,  thank  God!  my  father's  a 
sober  man  and  likely  to  live;  and  if  you've  got  a  man 
by  the  chimney-corner,  it  doesn't  matter  if  he's  child- 
ish— the  business  needn't  be  broke  up." 

The  delicate  process  of  getting  her  narrow  gown 
over  her  head  without  injury  to  her  smooth  curls," 
obliged  Miss  Priscilla  to  pause  in  this  rapid  survey  of 
life,  and  Mrs.  Osgood  seized  the  opportunity  of  rising 
and  saying — 

"Well,  niece,  you'll  follow  us.      The  Miss  Gunus* 
will  like  to  go  down.'' 

"Sister,''  said  Nancy,  when  they  were  alone,  "you've 
offended  the  Miss  Gunns,  I'm  sure." 

"What  have  I  done,  child,"  said  Priscilla,  in  some 
alarm. 

"Why,  you  asked  them  if  they  minded  about  being 
ugly — you're  so  very  blunt." 

"Law,  did  I?     Well,  it  popped  out:  it's  a  mercy  I 


\ 

SILAS    MARNEK,  145 

said  no  more,  for  I'm  a  bad  un {olive  with  folks  when 
they  don't  like  the  truth.     But  as  for  being  ngly,  look 
at  me,  child,  in  this  silver-coloured  silk — I  told  you 
how  it  'ud  be — I  look  as  yallow  as  a  dairadill     Any-. 
body  'ud  say  you  wanted  to  make  a  mawkin  of  me.' 

"No,  Priscy,  don't  say  so.  I  begged  and  prayed 
of  you  not  to  let  us  have  this  silk  if  you'd  like  anoth- 
er better.  I  Avas  willing  to  liave  your  choice,  you 
know  I  was,"  said  Nancy,  in  anxious  self- vindication. 

"Nonsense,  child,  you  know  you  had  set  your  heart 
on  this;  and  reason  good,  for  you're  the  colour  o'  cream. 
It  'ud  be  fine  doings  for  you  to  dress  yourself  to  suit 
wy  skin.  What  I  find  fault  with,  is  that  notion  o' 
yours  as  I  must  dress  myself  just  like  you.  But  you 
do  as  you  like  with  me — you  ahvays  did,  from  when* 
first  you  begun  to  walk.  If  you  wanted  to  go  the 
field's  length,  the  field's  length  you"d  go  :  and  there 
w^as  no  whipping  you,  for  you  looked  as  prim  and  in- 
nicent  as  a  daisy  all  the  while." 

"Priscy,"  said  Nancy,  gently,  as  she  fastened  a  coral 
necklace,  exactly  like  her  own,  round  PrisCilla's  neck, 
which  was  very  far  from  being  like  her  own,  "I'm 
sure  I'm  willing  to  give  way  as  far  as  is  right,  but  who 
shouldn't  dress  alike  if  it  isn't  sisters?  Would  y()u 
have  us  go  about  looking  as  if  we  were  no  kin  to  one 
another — us  that  have  got  no  mother  and  not  another 
sister  in  the  world  I  I'd  do  what  was  right,  if  I  dress- 
ed in  a  gown  dyed  with  cheese-colouring;  and  I'd 
rather  you'd  clioose,  and  let  me  wear  what  pleases 
you.'' 

"There  you  go  again!     You'd  come  round  to  the 


!0 


I 

14(J  SmA8    MAEKER. 

same  thing  if  one  talked  to  you  from  Sat urda.}'  night 
till  Saturda}^  morning.  "It'll  be  fine  .fun  to  8oy  how 
Yod' 11  master  your  husband  and  never  raise  your  voice 
above  the  singing  o'  the  kettle  all  the  while.  I  like 
to  see  the  men  nia.stered!''         ' 

"Don't  talk  so,  Priscy," said  Na'ncy,  blusiiing.  "You 
•know  I  don't  mean  ever  to  be  married." 

"0,yoa  never  mean  a  fiddlestick's  end!"  >siild  i'ris- 
cilla,  as  she  arranged  her  discarded  dress,  a^id  closed 
her  bandbox.  "Who  shall  /  have  to  work  for  when 
father's  gone,  if  you  are  to  go  and  take  notions  in  your 
head  and  be  an  old  maid,  because  some  folks  are  no 
better  than  they  should  be  l  I  haven't  a  bit  o'  patience 
with  you — sitting  on  an  addled  egg  forever,  as  if  there 
'was  nerer  a  fresh  un  in  the  world.  One  old  maid's 
enough  out  o'  two  sisters;  and  I  shall  do  credit  to  a 
single  life,  for  God  A'mighty  meant  me  for-it. .  Come, 
we  can  go  down  now.  I'm  as  ready  as  a  mawkin  can 
be — there's  nothing  awanting  to  frighten  the  crows, 
now  I've  got  my  ear-droppers  in.^' 

As  the  two  Miss  Lammeters  walked  into  the  large 
parlour  togetiher,  any  one  who  did  not  know  the  ciiar- 
acter  of  ])oth,  might  certainly  have  supposed  that  the 
reason  why  the  square-shouldered,  clumsy,  high-fea- 
tured Priscilla  wore  a  dress  the  facsimile  of  her  pretty 
sister's,  was  either  the  mistaken  vanity  of  the  one,  or 
the  malicious  contrivance  of  the  other  in  order  to  set 
off  her  own  rare  beauty.  But  the  good-natured  self- 
forgetful  cheeriness  and  common-sense  of  Priscilla 
would^soon  have  dissipated  the  one  susj)icion;  and 
the  modest  calm  of  Nancy's  speech  and   manners 


iLAy  ^ARNER.  147 

told  clearly  of  a  mind  free  from  all  disavowed  devices. 
Places  of  honour  had  been  kept  for  thfe  Miss  Lani- 
leters  near  the  head  of  the  principal  tea-table  in  Ihe 
.vainscoted  parlour,  noAV  looking  tVesli  and  pleasant  " 
with  .handsome  l)ranches  of  holly,  yew,  and  laurel, 
from  the  abundant  growths  of  the  old  garden;  and  ' 
Nancy  felt  an  inward  llutter,  that  no  firmness  of  pur- 
pose could,  prevent,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass 
advancing  to  lead  her  to  a  seat  between  himself  and 
Mr.  Grackenthorp,  while  Priscilla  was  called  to  the 
opposite  side  between  her  father  and  the. Squire.  It 
certainly  did  make  some  difference  to  Nancy  that  the 
lover  she  had  given  up  was  the  young  man  of  quite 
the  highest  consequence  in  the  parish — at  home  in  a 
venerable  and  unique  parlour,  which  was  the  extrem- 
ity of  grandeur  in  her  experience,  a  parlour  where 
she  might  one  day  have  been  mistress,  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  spoken  of  as  "Madam  Cass,'-' 
the  Squire's  wife.  These  circumstances  exalted  her 
inward  drama  in  her  own  eyes,  and  deepened  the  em- 
phasis with  which  she  declared  to  herself  that  not  the 
most  dazzling  rank  should  induce  her  to  marry  a  man 
whose  conduct  showed  him  careless  of  his  character, 
but  that,  "love  once,  love  always,''  was  the  motto  of  a 
true  and  pure  woman,  and  no  man  should  ever  have 
any  right  over  her  which  would  be  a  call  on  her  to 
destroy  the  dried  flowers  that  she  treasured,  and  al-  , 
ways  would  treasure,  for  Grodfrey  Cass's  sake.  And 
Nancy  was  capable  of  keeping  her  word  to  herself  un- 
der very  trying  conditions.  Nothing  but  a  becoming 
blush  betrayed  the  moving  thoue:hts  that  urged  them- 


i4b  SILAS     MARNER. 

selves  "ujDon  her  as  she  accepted  the  seat  next  to  11  r. 
Crackenthor|);  for  she  was  so  instinctively  neat  ami 
adroit  in  all  her  actions,  and  her  pretty  lips  met  each 
other  with  such  quiet  firmness,  that  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  her  to  appear  agitated. 

It  was  not  the  rectors  practice  i<^  let  a  charining 
blush  pass  without  an  appropriate  compliment.  He 
was  not  in  the  least  lofty  or  aristocratic,  but  simply 
a  merry-eyed,  small- featured,  grey-haired  man,  with 
his  cliin  propped  by  an  ample,  many-creased  white 
neckcloth,  which  seemed  to  predominate  over  every 
point  in  his  person,  and  somehow  to  impress  its  pe- 
culiar character  on  his  remarks;  so  that  to  have  con- 
sidered his  amenities  apart  from  his  cravat,  would 
have  been  a  severe,  and  perhaps  a  dangerous,  effort 
of  abstraction. 

"Ha,  Miss  Nancy,''  he  said,  turning  his  head  with- 
in his  cravat,  and  smiling  down  pleasantly  upon  her, 
"when  anybody  pretends  this  has  been  a  severe  a\ in- 
ter, I  shall  tell  them  I  saw  the  roses  blooming  on 
New  Year's  Eve — eh,  Godfrey,  what  do  you  say  ?'' 

Godfrey  made  no  reply,  and  avoided  looking  at 
Nancy  very  markedly ;  for  though  these  compliment- 
ary, personalities  were  held  to  be  in  excellent  taste  in. 
old-fashioned  Raveloe  society,  reverent  love  has  a 
pohteness  of  its  own  which  it  teaches  to  men  other- 
wise of  small  schooling.  But  the  Squire  was  rather 
impatient  at  Godfrey's  showing  himself  a  dull  spark 
in  this  way.  By  this  advanced  hour  of  the  day,  the 
Squire  was  always  in  higher  spirits  than  we  have  seen 
him  in  at  the  breakfast  table,  and  felt  it  quite  pleasant 


SILAS    MARKER.  149 

to  fulfil  the  hereditary  duty  of  being  noisily  jovial 
and  patronising:  the  large  silver  snuff-box  was  in  act- 
ive service,  and  was  offered  without  fail  to  all  neigh- 
bours from  time  to  time,  however  often. they  might 
have  declined  the  favour.  ■  At  present  the  Squire  had 
only  given  an  express  welcome  to  the  heads  of  fami- 
lies as  they  appeared;  but  always  as  the  evening  deep- 
ened, his  hospilalily  rayed  out  more  widely,  till  he 
had  tapped  the  youngest  guests^  on  the  back  and 
shown  a  peculiar  fondness  for  their  presence,  in  the 
full  belief  that  they  must  feel  their  lives  made  happy 
by  their  belonging  to  a  parish  where  there  was  such 
a  hearty  man  as  Squire  Cass  to  invite  them  and  wish 
them  well.  Even  in  this  early  stage  of  the  jovial 
'mood,  it  was  natural  that  he  shou"ld  wish  to  supply 
his  son's  deficiencies  by  looking  and  speaking  for  him. 
"Ay,  ay,"  he  began,  offering  his  snuff-box  to  Mr. 
Lammeter,who  for  the  second  time  bowed  his  head  and 
waved  his  hand  in  stiff  rejection  of  the  offer,  "us  old 
fellows  may  wish  ourselves  young  to-night,  when  we 
see  the  mistletoe-bough  in  the  White  Parlour.  It's 
true,  most  things  are  gone  back'ard  in  these  last  thir- 
ty years — the  country's  going  down  since  the  old  king 
fell  ill.  But  when  I  look  at  Miss  Nancy,  here,  I  be- 
gin to  think  the  lasses  keep  up  their  quality; — dino- 
me  if  I  remember  a  sample  to  match  her,  not  when  I 
was  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  thought  a  deal  about  my 
pigtail.  No  offence  to  you,  madam,"  he  added,  bend- 
ing to  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who  sat  by  him,  "I  didn't 
know  you  when* you  were  as  young  as  Miss  Nancy 
here." 


Mrs.  Crackenthorp — a  small  blinking  woman,  who 
fidgeted  incessantly  with  her  lace,  ribbons,  and  gold 
chain,  turning  her  head  about  and  making  subdued 
noises,  very,  much  like  a  guinea-pig,  that  twitches  its 
"nose  and  sohloquises  in  all  company  indiscriminately 
. — ^now  blinked  and  iidgeted  towards  tlie  Squire,  and 
said,  "0  no — no  oifence." 

This  emphatic  compliment  of  the  Squire's  to  Nancy 
was  felt  hy  others  besides  Godfrey  to  have  a  dii)lo- 
matic  significance;  and  her  father  gave  a  slight  addi- 
tional erectness  to  his  back,  as  he  looked  across  the 
table  at  her  with  complacent  gravity.  That  grave 
and  orderly  ^senior  was  not  going  to  bate  a  jot  of  his 
dignity  by  seeming  elated  at  the  notion  of  a  match 
between  his  famfly  and  the  Squire's;  he  was  gratified' 
by  any  honour  paid  to  his  daughter;  but  he  must  see 
an  alteration  in  several  ways  before  his  consent  would 
be  vouchsafed.  His  spare  but  healthy  person,  and 
high-featured  firm  face,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  never 
been  flushed  by  excess,  was  in  strong  contrast,  not 
only  with  the  Squire's,  but  with  the  appearance  of  the 
Raveloe  farmers  generally — in  accordance  with  a  fa- 
vourite saying  of  his  own,- that  "breed  was  stronger 
than  pasture.'' 

"Miss  Nancy's  wonderful  like  what  her  mother 
was,  though;  isn't  she,  Kimble?"  said  the  stout  lady 
of  that  name,  looking  round  for  her  husband. 

But  Doctor  Kimble  (county  apothecaries  in  old 
days  enjoyed  that  title  without  authority  of  diploma,) 
being  a  thin  and  agile  man,  was  flitting  about  the 
room  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  making  himself 


ngrceable  to  his  feminine  patients,  with  medical  im- 
partiality, and  being  welcomed  everywhere  as  a  doc- 
tor by  hereditary  right — not  one  of  those  miserable 
apothecaries  who  canvass  for  practice  in  striange  neigh- 
bourhoods, and  spend  all  their  income  in  starving  their 
one  horse,  l)ut  a^man  of  substance,  able  to  keep  an  ex- 
travagant table  like  the  best  of  his  patients.  Time 
out  of  mind  the  Raveloe  doctor  had  been  a  Kimble ; 
Kimble  was  inherently  a  doctor's  nauie;  and  it  was 
difficult  to  contemplate  firmly  the  melancTioly  fact  that 
,  the  actual  Kimble  had  .no  son,  so  that  his  practice 
might  one  day  be  handed  over  to  a  successor,  with 
the  incongruous  nara.e  of  Taylor  or  Johnson.  But  in 
that  case  the  wiser  people  in  Raveloe  would  employ 
Dr.  Blick  of  Flitton — as  less  unnatural. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me,  my  dear?''  said  the  authen- 
tic doctor,  coming  quickly  to  his  wife's  side;  but,  as 
if  foreseeing  that  she  would  be  too  much  out  of  breath 
to  repeat  her  remark,  he  went  on  immediately — "Ha, 
Miss  Priscilla,  the  sight  of  you  revives  f  he  taste  of 
that  super-excellent  pork-pie.  '  I  hope  the  batch  isn't 
near  an  end." 

"Yes,  indeed,  it  is,  doctor,"  said  Priscilla;  ''but 
I'll  answer  for  it  the  next  shall  be  as  good.  My  pork- 
•pies  don't  turn  out  well  by  chance.'' 

"Not  as  your  doctoring  does,  eh,  Kimble? — be- 
cause folks  forget  to  take  your  physic,  eh?"  said  the 
Squire,  who  regarded  physic  and  doctors  as  many 
loyal  churchmen  regard  the  church  and  the  clergy — 
tasting  a  joke  against  them  when  he  was  in  health, 
but  impatiently  eag6r  far  their  aid  when  anything  was . 


152  .        SILAS    MAKMER. 

the  matter  with  hiiu.     He  tapped,  his  box,  and  looked 
round  with  a  triumphant  lairgh. 

"Ah,  s lie  has  a  quick  wit,  my  friend  Priscilla,  has,'' 
said  the  doctor,  choosing  to  attribute  the  epigram  to 
the  lady  rather  than  allow  a  brother-in-law  that  ad- 
vantage over  him.  "She  saves  a  little  pepper  to 
sprinkle  over  her  talk — that's  the  reason  why  she 
never  puts  too  much  into  her  pies.  There's  my  wife, 
now,  she  never  has  an  answer  at  her  tongue's  end; 
but  if  I  oflfend  \ier,  she's  sure  to  scarify  my  throat  with 
black  pepper  the  next  day,  or  else  give  me  the  colic  . 
with  watery  greens.  That's  an  awful  tit-for-tat." 
Here  the  vivacious  doctor  made  a  pathetic  grimace. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  like?"  said  Mrs.  Kimble, 
laughing  above  her  double  chin  with  much  good-hu- 
mour, aside  to  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who  blinked  and 
nodded,  and  seemed  to  intend  a  smile,  which,  by  the 
correlation  offerees,  went  off  in  small  twitchings  and 
noises. 

"I  suppose  that's  the  sort  of  tit-for-tat  adopted  in. 
your  profession,  Kimble,  if  you've  a  grudge  against  a 
patient,"  said  the  rector. 

"Never  do  have  a  grudge  against  onr  patients," 
said  Mr.  Kimble,  "except  when  they  leave  us:  and 
then,  you  see,  we  haven't  the  chance  of  prescribing 
for  'em.  Ha,  J^iiss  Nancy,"  he  continued,  suddenly 
skipping  to  Nancy's  side,  "you  won't  forget  your 
promise  1     You're  to  save  a  dance  for  me,  you  know." 

"Come,  come,  Kimble,  don't  you  be  too  for'ard," 

said  the  Squire.      "Give  the  young  uns  fair  play. 

.  There's  my  son  Godfrey  '11  be  wanting  to  have  a 


SILAS    MARNEE.  •     153 

round  with  you  if  you  run  off  with  Miss  Nancy. 
He's  bespoke  her  for  the  first  dance,  I'll  be  bound. 
Eh,  sir!  what  do  you  say?"  he  continued,  throwing 
himself  backward,  and  looking'at- Godfrey.  "Haven't 
you  asked  Miss  Nancy  to  open  the  dance  with  you?" 
•  Godfrey,  sorely  uncomfortable  under  this  signifi- 
cant insistance  about  Nancy,  and  afraid  to  think 
where  it  would  end  by  the  time  his  father  had  set  his 
usual  hospitable  example  of  drinking  before  and  after 
supper,  saw  no  course  open  but  to  turn  to  Nancy  and 
say,  with  as  little  awkwardness  as  possible — 

"No;  I've  not  asked  her  yet,  but  I  hope  she'll  con- 
sent— if  somebody  else  has'nt  been  before  me.'' 

"No,  I've  not  engaged  myself,"  said  Nancy,  quiet- 
ly, thougb  blushingly.  (If  Mr.  Godfrey  founded  any 
hopes  on  her  consenting  to  dance  with  him,  he  would 
soon  be  undeceived;  but  there  was  no  need  for  her  to 
be  uncivil.) 

"Then   I  hope  you've  no  objections  to   dancing 
with  me,"  said  Go'dfrey,  beginning  to  lose  the  sense 
that  there  was  any  thing  uncomfortable  in  this  arrange- 
ment. 
•   "No,  no  objections,"  said  Nancy,  in  a  cold  tone. 

"Ah,  well,  you're  a  lucky  fellow,  Godfrey,"  said  un- 
cle Kimble;  "but  you're  my  godson,  so  I  wont  stand 
in  your  way.  Else  I'm  not  so  very  old,  ^h,  my  dear?" 
he  went  on,  skipping  to  his  wife's  side  again.  "  You 
wouldn't  mind  my  having  a  second  after  you  were 
gone — niot  if  I  crie^  a  good  deal  first?'' 

"Come,  come,  take  a  cup  o'  tea  and  stop  your 
tongue,  do,''  said  good  humoured  Mrs.  Kimble,  feeling 


154    *  SILAS    MAKNER. 

some  pride  in  a  husband  who  must  be  regarded  as  so 
clever  and  amusing  by  the  company  generally.  If  he 
had  only  not  been  irritable  at  cards ! 

While  safe,  well- tested  personalities  were  enliven- 
ing the  tea  in  this  way,  the  sound  of  the  iiddle  ap- 
proaching within  a  distance-  at  which  it  could  t^e 
heard  distinctly,  made  the  young  people  look  at  each 
other  witli  sympathetic  impatience  for  the  end  of  the 
meal. 

"Wliy,  there's  Solomon  in  the  hall,"  said  the  Squire^ 
"and  playing  my  fav'rite  tune,  I  believe — 'The  flaxen- 
headed  ploughboy' — he's  for  giving  us  u  hint  as  we 
aren't  enough  in  a  hurry  to  hear  him  play.  Bob,''  he 
called  out  to  his  third  long-legged  son,  who  was  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  "open  the  door,  and  tell 
Solomon  to  come  in.  He  shall  give  us  a  tune  here.'' 
•  Bob  obeyed,  and  Solomon  walked  in,  fiddJing  as  he 
walked,  for  he  would  on  no  account  break  off'  in  the 
middle  of  a  tune. 

"Here,  -Solomon,"  said  the  Squire,  with  loud  pa- 
tronaoje.  "Round  here,  my  man.  Ah,  1  knew  it 
was  'The  flaxen-headed  ploughboy :'  thete's  no  finer 
tune." 

Solomon  Maccy,  a  small  hale  old  man  witli  an 
abundant  crop  of  long  white  hair  reaching  nearly  to 
his  shoulders,  advanced  to  the  indicated  spot,  bowing 
reverently  while  he  fiddled,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he 
respected  the  company,  though  he  respected  the  key- 
note more.  As  soon  as  he  had  repeated  the  tunc  and 
lowered  liis  fiddle,  he  bowed  again  ^to  the  Squire  and 
the  rector,  and  said,  "I  hope  I  see  your  honour  and 


S1LAS\MAKNKR.  155 


your  reverence  well,  nnd  wishing  j'-ou  health  and  long 
life  and  a  happy  New  Year.  And  wishing  the  same 
to  you,  Mr.  Laninieter,  sir;  and  to  the  other  gentle- 
men, and  the  madams,  and  the  young  lasses." 

As  Solomon  uttered  the  last  words,  he  bowed  in  all 
directions  solicitously,  lest  he  should  be  wanting  in 
due  respect.  But  thereupon  he  immediately  began  to 
prelude,  and  fell  into  the  tune  which  he  knew  would 
be  taken  as  a  special  compliment  by  Mr.  Lammeter. 

"Thank  ye,  Solomon,  thank  ye,"  said  Mr.  Lam- 
meter, when  the  fiddle  paused  again.  "That's  'Over 
the  hills  and  far  away,'  that  is.  My  father  used  to 
say  to  me,  whenever  we  heard  that  tune,  'Ah,  lad,  / 
come  from  over  the  hills  and  far  away.'  There's  a 
many  tunes  I  don't  make  head  or  tail  of;  but  that 
speaks  to  me  like  the  blackbird's  whistle.  I  suppose 
it's  the  name:  there's  a  deal  in  the  name  of  a  tune." 

But  Solomon  was  already  impatient  to  prelude 
again,  and  presently  broke  with  much  spirit  into  "Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley,"  at  which  there  was  a  sound  of 
chairs  pushed  back,  and  laughing  voices. 

"Ay,  ay,  Solomon,  we  know  what  that  means,'' 
said  the  Squire,  rising.  "It's  time  to  begin  the  dance, 
eh?     Lead  the  way,  then,  and  we'll  all  follow  you.'^ 

So  Solomon,  holding  his  white  head  on  one  side, 
and  playing  vigorously,  marched  forward  at  the  head 
of  the  gay  procession  into  the  White  Parlour,  where 
the  mistletoe-bough  was  hung,  and  multitudinous  tal- 
low candles  made  rather  a  brilliant  effect,  gleaming 
from  among  the  berried  holly-boughs,,  and  reflected 
in  the  old  fashioned  oval  mirrors  fastened  in  the  pan- 


156  SILAS    MARNER. 

els  of  the  white  wainscot.  A  quaint  procession!  Old 
Solomon,  in  his  seedy  clothes  and  long  white  locks, 
seemed  to  be  luring  that  decent  company  by  the  mag- 
ic scream  of  his  fiddle — lurins:  discreet  matrons  in  tur- 
ban-shaped  caps,  nay,  Mrs.  Crackenthorp  herself,  the 
summit  of  whose  perpendicular  feather  was  on  a  level 
with  the  Squire's  shoulder — luring  fair  lasses  compla- 
cently Conscious  of  very  short  waists  and  skirts  blame- 
less of  front- folds — burly  fathers,  in  large  variegated 
waist-coats,  and  ruddy  sons,  for  the  most  part  shy  and 
sheepish,  in  shprt  nether  garments  and  very  long 
coat-tails. 

Already,  Mr.  Macey  and  a  few  other  privileged  vil- 
lagers, who  were  allowed  to  be  spectators  on  these 
great  occasions,  were  seated  on  benches  placed  for  them 
near  the  door;  and  great  was  the  admiration  and  sat- 
isfaction in  that  quarter  when  the  couples  had  formed 
themselves  for  the  dance,  and  the  Squire  led  off  with 
Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  joining  hands  with  the  rector  and 
Mrs.  Osgood.  That  was  as  it  should  be — that  was  what 
everybody  had  been  used  to — and  the  charter  of  Rav- 
eloe  seemed  to  be  renewed  by  the  ceremony.  It  was 
not  thought  of  as  an  unbecoming  levity  for  the  old 
and  middle-aged  people  to  dance  a  little  before  sitting 
down  to  cards,  but  rather  as  part  of  their  social  duties. 
For  what  were  these  if  not  to  be  merry  at  appropriate 
times,  interchanging  visits  and  poultry  with  due  fre- 
quency, paying  each  other  old-established  compliments 
in  sound  traditional  phrases,  passing  well-tried  person- 
al jokes,  urging  your  guests  to  eat  and  drink  too  much 
out  of  hospitality,  and  eating  and  drinking  too  much 


SILAS    MARNER.  157 

in  your  neighbour's  house  to  show  that  you  liked  your 
cheer?  And  the  parson  naturally  set  an  example,  in 
these  social  duties. .  For  it  would  not  have  been  pos- , 
sible  for  the  Raveloe  mind,  without  a  peculiar  revela- 
tion, to  know  that  a  clergyman  should  be  a  pale-faced 
memento  of  solemnities,  instead  of  a  reasonably  faulty 
man,  whose  exclusive  authori|;y  to  read  prayers  and 
preach,  to  christen,  marry,  and  bury  you,  necessarily 
co-existed  with  the  right  to  sell  you  the  ground,  to  be 
buried  in,  and  to  take  tithe  in  kind;  on  which  last 
point,  of  course,  there  was  a  little  grumbling,  but  not 
to  the  extent  of  irreligion — not  beyond  the  grumbling 
at  the  rain,  which  was  by  no  means  accompanied  with 
a  spirit  of  impious  defiance,  but  with  a  desire  that  the 
prayer  for  fine  weather  might  be  read  forthwith. 

There  was  no  reason,  then,  why  the  rector's  dancing 
should  not  be  received  as  part  of  the  fitness  of  things 
quite  as  much  as  the  Squire's,  or  why,  on  the  other 
hand,  Mr.  Macey's  ofl^cial  respect  should  restrain  him 
from  subjecting  the  parson's  performance  to  that  crit- 
icism with  which  minds  of  extraordinary  acuteness 
must  necessarily  contemplate  the  doings  of  their  falli- 
ble fellow-men. 

"The  Squire's  pretty  springe,  considering  his  weight," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  "and  he  stamps  uncommon  well.  But 
Mr.  Lammeter  beats  'em  all  for  shapes:  you  see,  he 
holds  his  head  like  a  sodger,  and  he  isn't  so  cushiony 
as  most  o'  the  oldish  gentlefolks — they  run  fat  in  gen- 
eral; and  he's  got  a  fine  leg.  The  parson's  nimble 
enough,  but  he  hasn't  got  much  of  a  leg:  it's  a  bit  too 
thick  down'ard,  and  his  knees  might  be  a  bit  nearer 


i/j8  ut.A^'     -MAENKII. 

wi'out  damage ;.  but  ho  n^ji.^^ht  do  worse,  he  might  do 
worse.  Though  he  b^asn't  that  grand  wr-  -^ -— --;<r 
his  haod  as  the  Squire  has." 

"Talk  o'  nimhlonessjbok  at  Mrs. Osgood/' said  Ben 
Winthrop,  wiio  was  Iiolchng  his  son  Aaron  between 
his  knees.  "  She  trips  along  with  her  httle  steps,  so 
as  nobody  ean  see  how  she  goes — it's  like  as  if  she 
had  little  wheels  to  her  feet.  She  doesn't  look  a  day 
older  nor  last  year:  she's  the  finest-made  woman  as 
is,  let  the  next  be  where  she  will." 

'•  I  don't  heed  how  tlie  women  are  made,". said  Mr. 
Macey,,with  some  contempt.  "They  wear  nayther 
eoat  nor  breeches:  you  can't  make  much  out  o'  their 
shapes." 

"Fayder,"  said  Aaron,  whose  feet  were  busy  beat- 
ing out  the  tune,  "how  does  that  big  cock's-feather 
stick  in  Mrs.  Crackcnthorp's  yead  ? '  Is  there  a  little 
hole  for  it,  like  in  n)y  shuttle-cock?"' 

"Hush,  lad,  hush;  that's  the  way  the  ladies  dress 
theirselves,  that  is,"  said  the  father,  adding,  however, 
in  an  under-tone  to  Mr.  Macey,  "It  does  make  her 
look  funny,  though — partly  like  a  short-necked  bottle 
wi'  a  long  quill  in  it.  Hey,  by  jingo,  there's  the  young 
Squire  leading  off  now,  wi'  Miss  Nancy  for  partners. 
There's  a  lass  for  you! — like  a  pink-and-white  posy — 
there's  nobody  'ud  think  as  anybody  could  be  so  prit- 
ty.  I  should'nt  wonder  if  she's  Madam  Cass  some 
day,  avter  all  — and  nobody  more  rightfuller,  for  they'd 
make  a  fine  match.  You  can  find  nothing  against 
Master  Godfrey's  shapes,  Macey,  I'll  bet  a  penny" 

Mr.  Macey  screwed  up  his  mouth,  leaned  his  head 


»  -^ILAS    MARKEJ4.  159 

■lurlher  oa  one  side,  "and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  a 
presto  movement  as  his  eyes  followed  Godfrey  up  the 
'ance..    At  last  he  summed  up  his  opinion. 

"Pretty  well  dovvn'ard,  but  a  bit  too  round  i'  the 
shoulder-blades.  And  as  for  them  coats  as  he  gets 
fvoin  the  Flitton  tailor,  they're  a  poor  cut  to  pav 
double  money  lor." 

^'Ah,  Mr.  Maccy,  you  and  mo  are  two  old  folks,'" 
said  Ben,  slightly  indifrnant  at  this  carping..  "''When 
I've  got  a  pot  o'  good  ale,  I  like  to  SM\allcr  it,  and  do 
my  inside  good,  i'stead  o'  smelling  and  staring  at  it  to 
see  if  I  can't  find  fiiutwi'the  brewing.  I  should  like 
you  to  pick  me  out  a  finer-limbed  young  fellow  nor 
Master  Godfrey — one  as  'ud  knock  you  down  easier, 
or  's  more  pleasanter-looksed  when  he's  piert  and 
merry"' 

"  Tchuh !"  said  Mr.  Macey,  provoked  to  incrdased 
severity,  "  he  isn't  co^iie  to  his  right  colour  yet :  he's 
partly  like  a  slack-baked  pie.  And  I  doubt  he's  got 
a  soft  place  in  his  head,  else  why  should  he  be  turned 
round  the  finger,  by  that  offal  Dunsey  as  nobody's  seen 
o'  late,  and  let  him  kill  that  fine  hunting  boss  as  was 
the  talk  o' the*  cwmtry  ?  And  one  while  he  was  al- 
lays alter  Miss  Nanc)^.  and  then  it  all  went  oft' again, 
like  a  smell  o'  hot  porridge,  as  I  may  say.  That 
wasn't  my  way,  when  /  went  a-coorting." 

"Ah,  but  mayhap  Miss  Nancy  hung  oft',  like,  and 
your  lass  didn't,"  said  Ben. 

*'I  should  say  she  didn't/'  said  Mr,  Macey,  signifi- 
cantly. "  Before  I  said  '  sniff,'  I  took  care  to  know  as 
she'd  ^ay,  'snaff,'  and  pretty  quick  too.    I  wnsii't  a-go-s 


'* 


160    .  SILAS    MARNER.  * 

ing  to  open  my  laoutli,  lilie  a  dog  at  a  tly,  and  snap  it 
to  ag^in,  vvi'  LOfhing  to  swallor.*' 

"Well,  I  think  Miss  Nancy's  a-coming  round  again," ' 
said  Bon,  'lor  Master  Gxlfrcy  dosen't  look  so  down- 
hearted to-night.     And  1  sec  he's  for  taking  her  away 
to  sit  down,  novr  they're  at  the  enil  o'  the  dance :  that 
looks  like  sweethearting,  that  docti." 

The  reason  why  Godfrey  and  Nancy  had  left  the 
dance  was  not  so  tcnider  as  Ben  imagined.  In  the 
close  press  of  couples  a  slight  accident  had  happened 
to  N.ancy's  (Jress,  which,  wiiile  it  wa's  short  enough  to 
show  her  neat  ankle  in  front,  was  long  enough  behind 
to  be  caught  under  the  stately  stamp  of  the  Squire's 
foot,  so  as  to  rend  certain  stiches  at  the  waist,  and 
cause  much  sisterly  agitation  in  Priscilhi's  mind,  as 
well  as  serious  concern  in  Nancy's.  One's  thoughts 
may  be  much  occupied  with  love-struggles,  but  har3-' 
ly  so  as  to  be  insensible  to  a  disorder  in  the  general 
framework  of  things.  Nancy  had  no  sooner  com- 
pleted her  duty  in  the  figure  they  were  dancing  than 
she  said  to  Godfrey,  with  a  deep  blush,  that  she  must 
go  and  sit  down  till  Priscilla  could  come  to  her;  for 
the  sisters  had  already  exchanged  a  short  whisper  and 
an  open-eyed  glance  fall  of  meaning.  No  reason  leas 
urgent  than  this  could  have  prevailed  on  Nancy  to 
give  Godfrey  this  opportunity  of  sitting  apart  with 
her.  As  for  Godfrey,  he  was  feeling  so  happy  and 
oblivious  under  the  lonu  charm  of  the  country-dance 
with  Nancy,  that  he  got  rather  bold  on  the  strength  of 
her  confusion,  and  was  capable  of  leading  her  straight 
away,  without  leave  asked,  into  the  adjoining,  small 


IT 


SILAS    MARNLIl.  161 

parlour,  where  llie  card-tables  were  set. 

"O  noj  thank  you,"  said  Nancy,  coldly,  as  soon  as 
she  perceiTed  where  he  was  going,  ''not  in  there.    V\\ 
wait  here  till  Prisciila's  ready  to  come  to  nie.     Vm 
sorry  to  bring  you  out  of  the  dance  and  make  myself 
troublesome." 

"Why,  you'Jl  be  more  comfoTtable  here  by  your- 
self,'"' said  the  artful  Godfrey;  "I'll  leave  you  here 
till  your  sister  can  come."  lie  spoke  in  an  indifferent 
tone. 

That  was  an  agreeable  proposition,  and  just  what 
Nancy  desired;  why,  then,  was  she  a  little  hurt  that 
Mr.  Godfrey  should  make  it  ?  They  entered,  and  she 
seated  hqrself  on  achair  against  one  of  the  card-tables, 
as  the  stiffest  and  most  unapproachable  position  she 
could  choose. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said  immediately.  "I needn't 
give  you  any  more  trouble.  I'm  sorry  you've  had 
such  an  unlucky  partner." 

"That's  very  ill-natured  of  you,''  said  Godfrey, 
standing  by  her  without  any  sign  of  intended  depart- 
ure, "to  be  sorry  3ou've  danced  with  me.'^ 

''Oh,  no,  sir,  I  don't  mean  to  say  what's  ill-natured 
at  all,"  said  Nancy,- looking  distractingly  prim  and 
pretty.     "When  gentlemen  have  so  many  pleasures 
one  dance  can  make  but  very  little." 

"You  know  that  isn't  true.*  Yoii  know  one  dance 
with  you  matters  more  to  me  tlian  all  the  other  pleas- 
ures in  the  world.'' 

It  was  a  long,  long  while  since  Godfrey  had  said 
arvy  thing  so  dirett  as  that,  and  Nani:y  was  startled. 

II 


16'2  SILAS    MARNEE. 

But'  her  instinctive  dignity  and  repugnance  to  any 
show  of  emotion  made  her  sit  perfectly  still,  and  only 
throw  a  little  more  decision  into  her  voice  as  she  said— r 

"No,  indeed,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that's  not  known  to  me, 
and  I  have  very  good  reasons  for  thinking  different. 
But  if  it's  true,  I  don't  wish  to  hear  it."^ 

"Would  }*bu  never  forgive  me,  then,  Nancy — 'never 
think  well  of  me,  let  what  would  happen — would  you 
never  think  the  present,  jnado  amends  for  the  past? 
Not  if  I  turned  a  good  fellow,  and  gave  up  everything 
you  didn't  like?'"  . 

Godfrey  was  half  conscious  that  this  sudden  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  Nancy  alone  had  driven  him  be- 
side himself;  but  blind  feeling  had  got  the  mastery 
of  his  tongue.  Nancy  really  felt  much  agitated  by 
the  possibility  Godfrey's  words  suggested,  but  this 
very  pressure  of  emotion  that  she  was  in  danger  of 
finding  too'  strong*  for  her,  roused  all  her  power  of 
self-command. 

"I  should  he  glad  to  see  a  good  change  in  anybody, 
Mr.  Godfrey,''  she  answered,  with  the  slightest  discern- 
ible difference  of  tone,"  but  it  'ud  be  better  if  no  change 
was  wanted." 

"  You're  very  hard-hearted,  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey, 
pettishly.  "You  might  encourage  me  to  be  a  bet- 
ter fellow.  I'm  very  miserable— but  you've  no  feel- 
mg. 

"I  think  those  have  the  least  feehng  that  act  wrong 
to  begin  with,''  said  Nancy,  sending  out  a  flash  in  spite 
of  herself  Godfrey  was  delighted  with  that  little  flash, 
and  would  have  liked  to  go  on  and  make  her  quarrel 


SILAS    MARNEK.  KJo 

with  him;  Nancy  was  so  exasperalingly  quiet,  and 
firm.     She' was  not  indiflcrent  to  him  yet,  thon;i:li— 

The  entrance  of  Priscilla,  bustlina:  forward  and  siv,  - 
ing,  "Dear  heart  alive,  child,  let  us  look  at  this  gown." 
cut  off  Godfrey's  hopes  of  a  quarrel. 

"I  sfipposo  I  must  go  now,"  he  said  to  Priscilla. 

'•^t's  no  matter  to  me  w^hether  yoii  go  or  stay,"  said 

that  frank  lady,  searching  for  something  iii  her  norkri. 

with  a  preoccupied  brow. 

■  .  **  •     ' 

"Do  'yo2i  want  me  to  go?"  said  Godfrey,  looking  at 

Nancy,,  who  was  now  standing  up  by  Priscilla's  order. 

"As  you  like,"  said  Nancy,  trying  to  recover  all 
her  former  coldness,  and  looking  down  carefully  at  the 
hem  of  her  gown, 

"Then  I  like  to  stay,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  reckless 
determination  to  get  as  much  of*this  joy  as  he  could 
to-night,  and  think  nothing  of  the  morrow. 


t 


ir;4  '  SILAS    MARINER. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

While  Godfrey  Cass  was  taking  •  draugbts  of  for- 
tretfulness  from  the  sweet  presence  of  Nancy,  willing- 
ly losing  all  sense  of  that  hidden  bond  which  at  other 
moments  gall&l  and  fretted  him  so  as  to  mingle  irrita- 
tion with  the  very  sunshine,  Godfrey's  wife  was  walk-- 
ing  with  slow  uncertain  steps  through  the  snow-cov- 
ered Raveloe  lanes,  carrying  her  child  ia  her  arms. 

This  journey  on  New  Year's  Eve  was  a  premedita- 
ted act  of  vengeance  which  she  had  kept  in  her  heart 
ever  since  Godfrey,  iti  a  fit  of  passion,  had  told  her  he 
would  sooner  die  than  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife. 
There  would  be  a  great  party  at  the  Red  House  on 
New  Year's  Eve,  she  knew:  her  husband  would  bs 
smiling  and  smiled  upon,  hiding  her  existence  in  the 
darkest  corner  of  his  heart.  ■  But  she  AVould  mar  his 
pleasure:  she  would  go  in  her  dingy  rags,  with  her  • 
faded  face,  once  as  handsome  as  the  best,  with  her  lit- 
tle child  that  had  its  father's  hair  and  eyes,  and  dis- 
close herself  to  the  Squire  as  his  eldest  son's  wife.  It 
is  seldom  that  the  miserable  can  help  regarding  their 
misery  as  a  wrong  inflicted  by  those  who  are  less  mis- 
erable. Molly  knew  that  the  cause  of  her  dingy  rags 
was  not  her  husband's  neglect,  but  the  demori  Opium 
to  whom  she  was  enslaved,  body  and  soul,  except  in 
the  lingering  mother's  tenderness  that  refused  to  give 


him  her  hungry  child.  She  knew  this  well;  and  yet, 
inlhe  moments  of  wretched  unbenumbed  conscious- 
ness, the  sense  of  her  want  and  degradation  transform-  * 
cd  itself  continually  into  bitterness  towards  Godfrey. 
He  was  well  otffi  and  if  she  had  her  rights  .she  would 
be  well  oir  too.  The  beUef  that  he  rcpentedihis  mar- 
riage, and  suffered  from  it,  only  aggravated  her  vin- 
dictiveness.  Just  as  self-reproving  thoughts  do  not 
come  to  us  too  thickly,  even  in  the  purest  air,  and  with 
the  best  lessons  of  heaven  and  earth;  how  i»hould  those 
white-winged  delicate  messengers  make  their  way  to 
Molly's  poisoned  chamber  inhabited  by  no  higher  mem- 
ories than  those  of  a  bar-maid's  paradise  of  pink  rib- 
bons and  gentlemen's  jokes  I 

■  She  had  set  out  at  an  early  hour,  but  had  lingered 
on  the  road,  inclined  by  her  indolence  to  believe  that 
if  she  waited  under  a  warm  shed  the  snow  would  cease 
to  fall.  She  had  waited  longer  than  she  knew,  and 
now  that  she  found  herself  belated  in  the  snow-hidden 
ruggedness  of  the  long  lanes,  even  the  animation  of  a 
vindictive  purpose  could  not  keep  her  spirit  from  fail- 
ing. It  was  seven  o'clock,  and  by  this  time  'she  was  ' 
not  very  far  from  Raveloe,  but  she  was  not  familiar 
enough  with  those  monotonous  lanes  to  knov/  how 
near  she  was  to  her  journey's  end.  She  needed  com- 
fort, and  she  knew  but  one  comforter — the  familiar 
demon  in  her  bosom;  but  she  hesitated  a  moment,  af- 
ter drawing  out  the  black  remnant,  before  she  raised 
it  to  her  lips.  In  that  moment  the  moth(5r's  love 
pleaded  for  painful  consciousness  rather  than  oblivion 
— pleaded  to  be  left  in  aching  ^^t3erineei,  rather  than 


liji',  ::     _  aKK 

to  have  the  encircling  arms  benuraberl  so  that  the j 
could  nbt  feel-  the  dear  burden.  '  in  another  moment 
''  Molly  had  fiung  something  away,  but  it  was  not  the 
black  remnant — it  was  an  empty  phial.  -  And  she 
walked  on  again  under  the  breaking  cloud,  from  which 
there  came  now  and  then  the  light  of  a  quickly-veiled 
star,  for  a  freezing  wind  had  sprung  up  since  the 
snowing  had  ceaSed.  ]3ut  &lie  walked  always  'more 
and  more^  drow-^ily,  and  clutched  more. and  more  auto- 
matically the  sleeping  child  at  her  bosom. 

Slowly  the  demon  was  working  his  will,  and  cold 
and  weariness  were  his  helpers.  Soon  she  felt  noth- 
ing but  a  supreme  immediate  longing  that  curtained 
oif  all  futurity — the  longing  to  lie  down  and  sleep. 
She  had  arrived  at  a  spot  where  her  footsteps  were 
no  longer  checked  by  a  hedgerow,  and  she  had  wan- 
dered vaguely,  unable. to  distinguish  any  objects,  not- 
withstanding the  wide  whiteness  around  her,  and  the 
growing  starlight.  She  sank  down  against'  a  strag- 
gling furze  bush,  an  easy  pillow  enough ;  and  the  bed 
of  snow,  too,  was  soft.  ;^he  did  not  feel  that  the  bed 
was  cold",  and  did  not  heed  whether  the  child  would 
v/ake  and  cry  for  her.  But  her  arm^  did  not  yet  re-, 
lax  their  instinctive  clutch;  and  the  little  one  slum- 
bered on  as  gently  as  if  it  had  been  rocked  in  » lace- 
^trimmed  cradle. 

But  the  complete  torpor  came  at  last:  the  fingers 
lost  their  tension,  the  arms  unbent;  then  the  little 
head  felf  away  from  the  bosom,  and  the  blue  eyes 
opened  wide  on  the  cold  starlight.  At  first  there  was 
a  little  peevish  cry  of  "  mammy,"  and  an  effort  to  re- 


^n/Xi    MARNER.  1G7 

gain  the  pillowing  arm  and  bosom;  but  mammy's  car 
was  deaf",  aiid  the  pillow  seemed  to  be  slipping  away 
backward.  Suddenly,  as  the  child  rolled  downward 
on* its  mother's  knees,. all  wet  with  snow,  its  eyes  were 
caught  by  a  bright  glancing  light  o\\  the  white  ground, 
and,  with  the  ready  transition  of  infancy,  it  was  imme- 
diately abjjorbed  in  watching  the  bright  living  thing 
running  towards  it,  yet  never  arriving.  That' bright 
living  thing  must  be  .caught;  and  in  an  instant  the 
child  had  slipped  on' all-fours,  and  held  out  one  little 
hand^to  catch  the  gleam.  But  the  gleam  wo'ild  not 
be  caught  in  that  way,  and  now  the  head  was  held  up 
to  see  where  the  cunning  gleam  came  from.  It  came 
from  a  very  bright  place;  and  the  little  one,  rising  on 
its  legs,  tbddled4h rough  the  snow,  the  old  grimy  shawl 
in  which  it  was  wrapi^ed  trailing  behind  it,  and  the 
queer  little  bonnet  dangling  at  its  back — toddled  on  to 
the  open  door 'of  Silas  Marner's  cottage,  and  right  up 
to  the  warm  hearth,  where  there  was  a  bright  lire  oi" 
logs  and  sticks,  which  had  thoroughly  warmed  the  old 
sack  (Silas's  greatcoat)  spread  out  on  the  bricks' to  dry. 
The  little  one,  accustomed  to  be  left  to  itself  for  long 
hours  without  notice  from  its  mother,  squatted  down 
on  the  sack,  and  spread  its  tiny  luinda  towards  tlie 
"blaze,  in  perfect  contentment,  gurgling  and  making 
many  inarticulate  communications  to  the  cheerful  tire, 
like  a  new-hatched  gosling  beginning  to  find  itself 
comfortable.  But  presently  the  warmth  had  a  lulling 
effect,  and  the  little  golden  head  sank  down  on  the 
old  sack,  and  the  blue  eyes  were  veiled  by  their  deli- 
cate half- transparent  lids. 


1G8  SILAK    MARNEK. 

But  where  was  Silas  Marncr  while  this  s;tr;Tnger- 
visitor  had  come  to  his  hearth?  He  was  in  tke  cot- 
tage, but  he  did  not  see  the  cliild.  During  the  last 
few  weeks,  l^ince  he  i)ad  lost  his  money,  he  had  con- 
tracted the  habit  of  opening  his  door  and  looking  out 
>  from  time  to  time,  as  if  he  thought  that  his  money 
might  be  somehow  coming  back  to  him,  orjhat  some 
trace,  some  news  of  it,  might  be  mysteriously  on  the 
road,  and  be  caught  by  the  listening  car  or  the  strain- 
ing eye.  It  was  chiefly  at  night,  when  he  was  not  oc- 
cupied in  hifl  loom,  that  he  fell  into  this  repetition  of 
an  act  for  which  he  could  have  assigned  no  definite 
purpose,  and  which  can  hardly  be  understood  except 
by  those  who  have  undergone  a  bewildering  separa- 
tion from  a  supremely  loved  object.  ♦In.the  evening 
twilight,  and  later  whenever  the  night  was  not  dark, 
Silas  looked  out  oa  that  narrow  prospect  round  the 
Stone-pits,  listening  and  gazing,  not  with  hope,  but  ^ 
with  mere  yearniiJg  and  unrest. 

This  morning  he  had  been  told  by  some  of  his 
neighbours  that  it  was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  that  he 
must  sit  up  and  hear  the  old  year  rung  out  and  the 
new  rung  in,  because  that  was  good  luck,  and  niight 
bring  his  money  back  again.  This  was  only  a  friend- 
ly Raveloe  way  of  jesting  with  the  half-crazy  oddities 
of  a  miser,  but  it  had  perhaps  helped  to  throw  Silas 
into  a  more  than  usually  excited  stat?.  Since  the  on- 
coming of  twilight  he  had  opened  his  door  as^ain  and 
again,  though  only  to  shut  it  immediately  at  seeing  all 
distance  veiled  by  the  falling  snow.  Buf  the  last  time 
he  opened  it  the  snow  had  ceased,  and  the  cloudn-were 


parting  here  and  there.  He  stood  and  listcued,  and 
gazed  for  a  h)ng  while — there  was  reallj'^  something  on 
the  road  coming  towards  him  then,  but  he  caught  no 
sign  of  it;  find  the  stillness  and  the  wide  trackless 
snow  seemed  to  narrow  his  solitude,  and  touched  his 
yearning  with  the  chill  of  despair.  He  went  in  again, 
and  put  his  right  hand  on  the  latch,  of  tlie  door  to 
close  it — but  he  did  not  close  it;  he  was  arrested,  as 
he  had  been  already  since  his  loss,  by  the  invisible 
waud  of  catalepsy,  and  stood  like  a  graven  image,  with 
wide  but  sightless  eyes,  holding  open  his  door,  jwwer- 
less  to  resist  either  the  good  or  evil  that  might  enter 
there. 

When  Marner's  sensibility  returned,  he  continued 
the  action  which  bad  been  arrested,  and  closed  his 
door,  unaware  of  the  chasm  in  his  consciousness,  un- 
aware of  any  intermediate  change,  except  that  the 
light  had  grown  dim,  and  that  he  was  chilled  and  faint. 
He  thought  he  had  been  two  long  standing  at  the  door 
and  looking  out.  Turning  towards  the  hearth,  w^here 
the  two  logs  had  fallen  apart,  and  sent  forth  only  a  red 
uncertain  glimmer,  he  seated  himself  on  his  fireside 
chair,  and  was  stooping  to  push  his  logs  together, 
when,  to  his  blurred  vision,  it  seemed  as  if  there  were 
gold  on  ihe  floor  in  front  of  the  hearth.  Gold ! — his 
own  gold — brought  back  to  him  as  mysteriously  as  it 
had  been  taken  away !  He  felt  his  heart  begin  to  beat 
violently,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  was  unable  to 
stretch  out  his  hand  and  grasp  the  restored  treasure. 
The  heap  of  gold  seemed  to  glow  and  get  larger  be- 
nwth  hig  agitated  gaze'.     He  leaned  forward  at  last, 


17U  ilLAi?    ilARN'EK. 

and  stretched  forth  his  hand ;  but  insteaci  of  the  hard 
coin  with  th^  feuiiliar  resisting  outline,  his  liugers  en- 
countered :-oft  warm  curls.  In  utter  amazement,  Silas 
iell  on  his  knees  and  l)f*nt  his  liead  low  to  examine  the 
marvel:  it  was  a  sleeping  child — a  round,  lair  thing, 
with  soft  yellow  rinirs  all  over  its  head.  Could  this 
be  his  little  sisle-r  coiue  back  to  him  in  a  dream — his 
little  sister  whom  he  had  carried  about  in  his  arms  for^ 
a  year  before  she  dietl,  when  he  was  a  small  boy  with- 
out shoes  or  stockings?  That* was  the  first  thought 
thai  darted  across  Silas's  blank  wonderment.  Was  it 
a  dream?  He  rose  to  his  feet  again,  puslied  his  logs 
together,  and  throwing  on  some  dried  leaves  and 
sticks,  raised  a  dame;  but  the  Hanie  did  not  disperse 
the  vision — it  only  lit  up  more  distinctly  the  little 
round  form  of  the  child  and  its  shabby  clothing.  It 
was  very  much  like  his  little  sii.ter.  Silas  sank  into 
his  chair  powerless,  under  the  double  presence  of  an 
inexplicaljle  surprise  and  a  hurrying  influx  of  mem- 
ories. How  and  when  hadthe  child  come  in  without 
his  knowledge!  He  had  never  been  beyond  the  door. 
But  along  with  that  question,  and  almost  thrusting  it 
away,  there  was  a  vision  of  the  old  home  and  the  old 
streets  leading  to  Lantern  Yard — and  within  that  vis- 
ion another,  of  the  thoughts  which  had  been  present 
with  him  in  those  far-otl'  scenes.  The  thoughts  were 
strange  to  him  now,  like  old  friendships  impossible  to 
revive;  and  yet  he  had  a  dreamy  feeling  that  this 
child  was  somehow  a  message  come  to  him  from  that 
far-off  life;  it  stirred  fibres  that  had  never  been  moved 
in  Raveloe — old  quiverings  of  tenderness — old  im- 


xi.A.S    MAlilAKK.  171 

prcssions  of  awe  at  the  presentiment  of  some  Power 
presiding  over  his  lifej  i'or  his  imagination  had  not 
yet  extricated  itself  from  th6  sense  of  myjstery  in  the 
child's  sudden  presence,  and  had  for'med  no  conjec- 
tures of  ordinary  natui'al  means  hy  which  f '^  fv.^nt 
could  have  been  brought  aboi^t. 

But  there  was  a  cry  on  the  hearth;  the  child  had 
awaked,  and  Marner  stooped  to  lift  it  on  his  knee.     It 
ching  round  his  neck,  and  I)ur^t  louder  and  louder  into 
'thai  mingling  of  inarticulate  cries  with  "mammy"  by 
which  little  children  express  the  bewilderment  of  wak- 
ing.    Silas  pressed  it  to  him,  and  almost  unconscious- 
ly uttered  sounds  of  hushing  tenderness,  while  he  be- 
thought himself  that  some  of  his  poi'riioe,  which  had 
got  cool  by  the  dying  lire,  would  do  to  feed  the  child 
with  if  it  were  only  warmed  up  a  little. 
•  He  had  plenty  to  do  through  the  next  hour.     The 
porridge,  sweetened  with  some  dry  brown  sugar  from 
an  old  store  which  he  had  refrained  fro^n  usinof  for 
himself,  stopped  the  cries  of  the  little  one,  and  made 
her  lift  her  blue  eyes  with  a  wide  quiet  gaze  at  Silas, 
as  lie  put  the  spoon  into  her  mouth.     Presently  she 
slipped  from  his  knee  and  began  to  toddle  about,  but 
witli  a  pretty  stagger  that  made  Silas  jump  up  and 
follow  her  leS,t  she  should  fall  against  anything  that 
would  hurt  her.     But  she  only  fell  in  a  sitting  pos- 
ture on  the  .ground,  and  began  to  pull  at  her  boots, 
looking  up  at  him  with  a  crying  face  as  if  the  boots 
hurt  her.     He  took  her  on  his  knee  again,  but  it  w^as 
sonxe  time  "before  it  occured  to  Silas's  dulf  bachelor 
mind  that  the  wet  boots  were  the  grievance,  pressing 


on  her  warm  ankles.  He  got  them  pfF  with  difficulty, 
and  baby  was  at  once  happily  occupied  with  the  pri-  ^ 
mary  mystery  of  her.  own  toes,  inviting  Silas,  with 
much  chuckling,  1x)  cfonsider  the  inystery  too.  But 
the  wet  boots  had  at  last  suggested  to  Silas  that  the 
child  had  been  walking,  on  the  snov/.  and  this  roused 
him  from  hi«  entire  oblivion  of  any  ordinary'  means 
by  which  it  could  have  entered  or  been  brought' into 
his  house.  Under  the  prompting  of  this  new  idea, 
and  without  waiting  to  form  conjectures;  he  raised  the  * 
child  in  his  arms,  and  went  to  the  door.  As  soon  as 
he  had  opened  it,  there  wns  the  cry  of  "mammy" 
again,  which  Silas  had  not  heard  since  the  child's  first 
hungry  waking.  Bending  forward,  he  could  just  dis- 
cern the  marks  made  by  the  little  feet  on  the  virgin 
snow,  and  he  followed  their  track  to  the  furze  bushes. 
"Mammy!''  the  little  one  cried  again  and  again, 
stretching  itself  forward  so  as  almost  to  escape  from 
Silas's  arms,  before  he  himself  was  aware  that  there 
was  something  more  than  the  bush  before  him — that 
there  was  a  human  body,  with  the  head  sunk  low  in 
the  furze,  and  half  covered  with  the  shaken  snow. 


»ILAfi    MAItNER.  17-8 


UHAPTEii  Xlll. 

,  It  was  after  the  early  supper-time  at  the  Red  House, 
and  the  entertainment  was  in  that  ?tage  when  bash- 
fuhiess  itself  had  passed  into  easy  jollity,  when  gentle- 
men, conscious  of  unusual  accomplishments,  could  at 
length  be  prevailed  o^  to  dance  a  hornpipe,  and'when 
the  Squire  preferred  talking  loudly,  scattering  snuff, 
and  patting  his  visitors'  backs,  to  sitting  longer  at.  the 
whist- table — a  choice  exasperating  to  uncle  Kimble, 
who,  being  always  volatile  in  sober  business  hours, 
became   intense    and    bitter  over  cards  and  brandy, 
shuffled  before  his  adversary's  deal  with  a  glare  of 
suspicion,  and  turned  up  a  mean  trump-card  with  an 
air  of  inexpressible  disgust,  as  if  in  a  world  where 
such  things  could  happen  one  might  as  well  enter  on 
a  course  of  reckless  profligacy.     When  the  evening 
had  advianced  to  this  pitch  of  freedom  and  enjoyment, 
it  was  usual  for  the  servants,  the  heavy  duties  of  sup- 
per being  well  over,  to  get  their  share  of  amusement 
by  coming  to  look  on  at  the  dancing;  so  that  the  back 
regions  of  the  house  were  left  in  solitude. 

There  were  twd  doors  by  which  the  White  Parlour 
was  entered  from  the  hall,  an3  they  were  both  stand- 
ing open  for  the  sake  of  air;  but  the  lower  one  was 
crowded  with  the  servants  and  villagers,  and  only  the 
upper  doorvvay  was  left  free.     Bob  Cass  was  fijruring 


174  .     SILAS   mai:nkk. 

in  a  hornpipe,  and  his  fatliL..  .,  ^..oud  ofthis  liftle 
son,  whom  he  repeatedly  declared  to  be  just  like  him- 
self in  his  young  days,  in  a  tone  that  implied  this  to 
be  the  very  highest  stamp  of  juvenile  merit,  was  the 
centre  of  a  grouji  who  had  placed  themselves  opposite 
the  perlbrmor,  not  far  from  the  upper  door.  Godfrey 
was  standing  a  little  way  off,  not  to  admire  his  brother's 
dancing,  but  to  keep  sight  of  Nancy,  who  was  seated 
in  the  group,  near  her  fatlier.  He  stood  aloof,  because 
he  wished  to  avoid  suirgesting  himself  as  a  subject. for 
the  Squire's  fiifhcrly  jokes  in  connection  with  matri- 
mony and  Miss  Nancy  Lammcters  beauty,  which 
were  likely  to  become  more  and  more  explicit.  But 
he  had  the  prospect  of  dancing  with  her. again  when 
the  hornpipe  was  concluded,  and  in  the  meanwhile  it 
was  \ery  pli':isai)t  to  (/et  lonD*  ^rlaiu  fs  at  her  nnitn  un- 
observed. 

But  when  Grodfrey  was  liftiin:  his  eyes  from  one  of 
those  long  glances,  they  encountered  an  object  as  start- 
ling to  him  at  that  moment  as  if  it  had  been  an  appa- 
rition from  the  dead.  It  was  an  apparition  from  that 
hidden  life  which  lies,  like  a  dark  by-street,  behind 
the  goodly  ornamented  facade  that  meets  the  sunlight 
and  the  gaze  of  respectable  admirers.  It  was  his  own 
child,  carried  in  Silas  Marncr's  arms.  That  was  his 
instantaneous  impression,  unaccompanied  by  doubt, 
though  he  had  not  §een  the  child  for  months  past; 
and  when  the  hope  was'i'ising  that  be  might  possibly 
be  mistaken,  Mr»Cracken thorp  and  Mr.  Lammeter  had 
already  advanced  to  Silas,  in  astonishment  at  this 
strange  advent.     Godfrey  ioiped  them  immediately. 


SILAS    MARNEK.        ^  175 

unable  to  rest  without  hearing  every  word — trying; to 
control  himself,  but  conscious  that  if  any  one  noticed 
liiin,  they  must  see  that  he  was  white-lipped  and  trem- 
bling. 

But  now  all  eyes  at  that  end  of  the  room  wgre  bent 
on  Silas  Manner;  the  Squire  himself  had  risen,  and 
asked  angrily,  "How's  this?— what's  this?— what  do 
you  do  coming  in  here  in  this  way?" 

"I'm  come  for  the  doctor— I  want  the  doctdr,"  Si- 
las had  said,  in  the  first  moment,  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp. 
"Why,  whal's  the  matter,  Marner?"  said  the  rec- 
tor.    "The  doctor's  here;  but  say  quietly  what  you 
^vant  him  for.'' 

'•'It's  a  woman,"  said  Silas,  speaking  low,  and  half-  ' 
breathlessly,  just  as  Godfrey  came  up,     "She  s  dead, 
I  think — dead  in  the  snow  at  the  Stone-pits— not  far 
•  from  my  door.'' 

Godfrey  felt  a  great  throb:  there  was  one  terror  in 
his  mind  at  that  moment:  it  was,  that  the  woman 
might  not  be  dead.  That  was  an  evil  terror — an  ugly 
inmate  to  have  found  a  nestling-place  in  Godfrey's 
kindly  disposition;  but  no  disposition  is  a  security 
from  evil  wishes  to  a  man  whose  happiness  hangs  on 
duplicity. 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  "Go  out 
into  the  hall  there.  I'll  fetch  the  doctor  to  you. 
Found  a  woman  in  the  snow— and  thinks  she's  dead," 
he  added,  speaking  low  to  the  Squire.  "Better  say 
as  little  about  it  as  possible:  it  will  shock  the  ladies. 
Just  tell  them  a  poor  woman  is  ill  from  cold  and  hun- 
ger.    I'll  go  and  fetch  Kimble." 


176  SILAS    MARNKK. 

'  i 

B^'  this  firrie,"  however,  the  ladies  had  pressed  for- 
riiriuus  to  know  what  could  have  brought  the 
fcioiiiary  linen-weaver  there  under  such  strange  circum- 
stances, and  interested  in  the  pretty  child,  who  half 
alarmed  and  half- attracted  by  the  brightness  and  the 
numerous  company,  now  frowned  and  hid  her  face, 
now  lifted  up  her  head  again  and  looked  round  pla- 
cabl3%  until  a  touch  or  a  coaxing  word  brought  back 
the  frown,  and  make  her  bury  her  face  with  new  de- 
termination. 

"What  child  is  it?''  said  several  ladies  at  once, 
and,  among  the  rest,  Nancy  Lam  meter,  addressing 
Godfrey. 

.      "I  don't  know — some  poor  woman's  wjio  has  been 
found  in  the  snow,*I  believe,"  was  the  answer  God- 
frey wrung  from  himself  with  a  terrible  effort.    ("Aft- 
er all,  am  I  certain!"  he  hastened  to  add,  silently,  in, 
anticipation  of  his  own  conscience.) 

"W  hy,  you'd  better  leave  the  child  here,  then,  Mas- 
ter Marner,"  said  good-natured  Mrs.  Kimble,  hesitat- 
•  ing,  however,  to  take  those  dingy  clothes  into  contact 
with  her  own  ornamented  satin  boddice.     "I'll  tell  one 
o'  the  girls  to  fetch  it." 

"No — no — I  can't  part  with.it,  I  can't  let  it  go,'' 
said  Silas,  abruptly.  "It's  come  to  me — I've  a  right 
to  keep  it" 

The  proposition  to  take  the  child  from  him  jiad 
come  to  Silas  (juite  unexpectedly,  and  his  speech,  ut- 
tered under  a  strong  sudden  impulse,  was  almost  like 
a  revelation  to  himself:  a  minute  before,  he  had  no 
distinct  intention  about  the  child. 


SILAS    MARNKK.  l'<  t 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  like?"  said  Mrs.  Kimble, 
in  a  mild  sui^prise,  to  her  neighbour. 

"Now,  ladies,  I  must  trouble  you  to  stand  a>;u<  , 
said  Mr.  Kimble,  coming  from  the  card-room,  in  some 
bitterness  at  the  interruption,  but  drilled  by  the  long 
habit  of  his  profession  into  oibedience  to  unpleasant 
calls,  even  when  he. was  hardly  sober.    - 

*'It^s  a  nasty  business  turning  out  now,  eh,  Kim- 
ble?" said  the  Squire.  "He  might  ha'  gone  for  your 
young  fellow — the 'prentice,  there — what's  his  name?" 

"  Might  ?  ayT-what's  the  use  of  talking  about 
might?''  growled  uncle  Kimble,  hastening  out  with 
Marner,  and  followed  by  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  God-  , 
frey.  "Get  me  a  pair  of  thick  boots,  Godfrey,  will 
you  ?  And  stay,  let  somebody  run  to  Winthrop's  and 
fetch  Dolly — she's  the  best  woman  to  get.  Ben  was 
here  himself  before  supper;  is  he  gone?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  met  him,"  said  iMarner;  "but  I  couldn't 
stop  to  tell  him  anything,  only  I  said  I  was  going  for 
the  doctor,  and  he  said  the  doctor  was  at  the  Squire's. 
And  I  made  haste  and  ran,  and  there  was  nobody  to 
be  seen  at  the  back  o'  the  house,  and  so  I  went  in  to 
wliere  the  company  was." 

The  child,  no  longer  distracted  by  the  bright  light 
and  the  smiling  womea's  faces,  began  to  cry  and  call 
for  "  mammy,"  though  always  clinging  to  Marner, 
who  had  apparently  won  her  thorough  confidence. 
Godfrey  had  come  back  witii  the  boots,  and/elt  the 
cry  as  if  some  fibre  were  drawn  tight  within  him. 

"I'll go," he  said,  hastily,  eager  for  some  movement; 
"I'll  go  and  fetch  the  wonaan — Mrs.  Winthrop." 


178  oiLAS  mar:\ki:. 

''O,  pooh— send  somebody  else,"  said  u..  ..e  Kim- 
ble, hurrying  away  with  Marner. 

"You'll  let  me  ,know  if  I  can  be  of  any  use,  Kim- 
.    ble,"  said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.     But  the  doctor  was  out 
of  hearing.  "  . 

Godfrey,  too,  had  disappeared:  he  was, gone  to 
snatch  his  hat  and  coat^  having  just  reflection  enough 
to  remember  that  he  must  not  look  like  a  madman ; 
but  he  rushed  out  of  the  house  into  the  snow  without 
heeding  his  thin  shoes. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  on  his  rapid  vvay  to  the 
Stone-pits  by  the  side  of  Dolly,  who,  though  feeling 
'.that  she  was  entirely  in  her  place  in  encountering 
cold  and  snow  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  was  niuch  con- 
cerned at  a  young  gentleman's  getting,  his  feet  wet 
under  a  hke  impulse. 

"  You'd  a  deal  better  go  back,  sir,"  said  Dolly,  with 
respectful  compassion.  "You've  no  call  to  catch  cold; 
and  I'd  ask  you  if  you'd  be  so  good  as  tell  my  hus- 
band to  come,  on  your  way  back — he's  at  the  Rain- 
bow, I  doubt — if  you  found  him  anyway  sober  enough 
to  be  o'  use.  Or  else,  there's  Mrs.  Snell  'ud  happen 
send  the  boy  up  to  fetch  and  carry,  for  there  may  be 
things  wanted  from  the  doctor's." 

"No,  I'll  stay,  now  I'm  once  out — I'll. stay  outside 
here,"  said  Godfrey,  when  they  cam6  opposite  Mar- 
ner's  cottage.  "You  can  come  and  tell  me  if  I  can 
do  anything." 

"  Well,  sir,  you're  very  good :  you've  a  tender 
heart,"  said  Dolly,  going  to  the  door. 

Godfrey  was  too  painfully  preoccupied  to  feel  a 


SILAS    MAIlNER.'  170 

twinge  of  self-reproach  at  this  nndescrved  praise.  lie 
walked  up  and  down,  unconscious  that  he  wasplnn:;- 
-^  ing  ankle-deep  in  snow,  unconscious  of  everything  but 
trembling  suspense  about  what  was  going  on  in  th-^ 
cottage,  and  the  effect  of  each  alternative  on  his  ill- 
ture  lot.  No,  liot  quite  unconscious  of  every  tiling 
else;  Dcepei*down,  and  half-smothered  by  passionate 
desire  and  dread,  there  was  the  gense  that  he  ought 
not  to  be  waiting  on  these  alternatives;  that  he  ought 
to  accept  t!ie  consequences  of  his  deeds,  own  the  mis- 
erable wife,  and  fulfil  the  claims  of  the  helpless  child. 
But  he  had  not  mora]  coufage  enough  to  contemplate 
that  active  renunciation  of  Nancy  as  possible  for  him: 
he  had  only  conscience  and  heart  enough  to  make~ 
him  for  ever  uneasy  under  the  weakness,  that  forbade 
the  renunciation.  And  at  this  moment  his. mind  leap- 
ed away  from  all  restraint  towards  the  sudden  pros- 
pect of  deliverance  from  his  long  bondage. 

."Is  shedead?"said  the  voice  that  predominated  over 
every  other  "within  him,  "If  she  is,  I  may  marry  Nan- 
cy; and  then  I  shall  be  agood  fellow  in  future,  and  have 
no  secrets,  and  the  child — shall  be  taken  care  of  some- 
how."' But  across  that  vision  came  the  other  possi-. 
bility — "She  may  live,  and  then  it's  all  up  with  me." 

Godfrey  never  kuQW^  how  long  it  was 'before  the 
door  of  the  cottage  opened  and  Mr.  Kimble  came  out. 
He  went  forward  to  meet  his  uncle,  prepared  to  sup-' 
press  the  agitation  he  must  feel,  whatever  news  he 
was  t.o  hear. 

**I  waited  for  you,  as  Fd  come  so  far,"  he  said, 
speaking  first. 


180  SILAS    MARNER. 

"Pooh,  it  was  nonsense  for  you  to  come  out:  why 
didn't  you  send  one  of  the  men  ?  There's  nothing  to 
be  done.  She's  dead — has  been  dead  for  hours,  I 
should  say." 

"What  sort  of  woman  is  she?''  said  Godfrey,  feel- 
ing the  blood  rush  to  his  face. 

"A  youn^  woman,  but  emaciated,  w^th  long  black  ^ 
hair.    Some  vagrant — quite  in  rags.    She'«  got  a  wed- 
ding-ring on,  however.     They  must  fetch  her  away 
to  the  workhouse  to-morrow.     Come,  come  along." 

"I  want  to  look  at  her,"  said  Godfrey.     "I  think 
I  sa\y  such  a  woman  yesterday.     I'll  overtake  you  in  " 
a  minute  or  two." 

Mr.  Kimble  went  on,  and  Godfrey  turned  back  to 
the  cottage.  He  cast  only  one  glance  at  the  dead  face 
on  the  pillow,  which  Dolly  had  smoothed  with  decent 
care;  but  he  remembered  that  last  look  at  his  unhap- 
py hated  wife  so  well,  that  at  the  end  of  sixteen  years 
every  line  in  the  worn  face  was  present  to  him  when 
he  told  the  full  story  of  this  night. 

He  turned  immediately  towards  the  hearth  where 
Silas  Marner  sat  lulling  the  child.  She  was  perfectly 
quiet  now,  but  not  asleep — only  soothed  by  sweet  por- 
ridge and  warmth  into  that  wide-gazing  calm,  which 
makes  us  older  human  beings,  with  our  inward  tur-* 
moil,  feel  a  certain  awe  in  the  presence  of  a  little  child, 
such  as  we  feel  before  some  quiet  majesty  or  beauty 
in  the  eartli  or  sky — before  a  steady-glowing  planet, 
or  a  full-floM-ered  eglantine,  or  the  bending  trees  over 
a  silent  pathway.  The  wide-open  blue  eyes  looked 
up  at  Godfrey's  without  any  uneasiness  or  sign  of  rec- 


SILAS    MARNER.         ^  181 

ognition;  the  child  could  make  no  visible  audible 
claim  on  its  father:  and  the  father  felt  a  strani2;c  mix- 
tiire  of  feelings,  a  conflict  of  regret  and  joy,  that  the 
pulse  of  that  little  heart  had  no  response  for  the 
half-jealous  yearning  in- his  own,  when  the  blue  eyes 
turned  away  from  hinl  slowly,  and  fixed  themselves 
oil  the  weaver's  queer  face,  which  was  bent  low 
down  to  look  at.  them,  while  the  small  hand  began 
to  j^Jull  Marner's  withered  cheek  with  loving  disfigu- 
ration. 

"You'll  take  the  child  to  the  parish  to-morrow?" 
asked  Godfrey,  speaking  as  indifferently  as  he  could. 

"Who  says  so?"  said  Mai*ner,  sharply.  "Will  Ihey 
make  me  take  her?'' 

"Why,  you  would  nt  like  to  keep  her,  should  you 
— an  old  bachelor  like  you  ?" 

"Till  anybody  shows  they've  a  right  to  take  her 
from  me,''  said  Marner.  "The  mother's  dead,  and  I 
reckon  it's  got  no  father:  its  a  lone  thing — and  I'm  a 
lone  thing.  My  money's  gone,  I  don't  know  where- — 
and  this  is  come  from  I  don't  know  where.  I  know 
nothing — I'm  partly  mazed." 

"Poor  little  thing!"  said  Godfrey.  "Let  me  give 
something  towards  finding  it  clothes.'' 

He  had.  ^ut  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  found  half- 
a-guinea,  and,  thrusting  it  into  Silas's  hand,  he  hurried 
out  of  the  cottage  to  overtake  Mr.  Kimble. 

"Ah,  I  see  it's  not  the  same  l^^oman  I  saw,"  he  said, 
as  he  came  up.  "It's  a  pretty  little  child:  the  old 
fellow  seems  to  want  to  keep  it;  that's  strange  for  a 
miser  like  him.     But  I  gave  him  a'  trifle  to  help  him 

'  ■       0 


ILAS    MARNER. 

out:  the  pai'ish  is'iit  likely  to  ; quarrel  with  him  for 
the  right  to  keep  the  child." 

"No-;  but  I've  seeu  tlie  time  when  I  might  have 
quarrelled  with  him  for  it  myself.  It's  too  late  now, 
though.  If  the  child  ran  into  jthe  lire,  your  aunt's  too 
fat, to  overtake  it;  she  could  only  sit  and  grunt  like 
an  alarmed  'sow.  But  what  a  fool  you. are,  Godfrey; 
to  come  out  in  your  dancing  shoes  and  stockings  in 
this  way — and  you  one  of  the  beaux  of  the  evening, 
and  at  your  own  house !  What  do  you  mean  by 
such  freaks,  yourtg  fellow?  Has  Miss  Nancy  been 
cruel,  and  do  you  want  to  spite  her  by  spoihng  your 
pumps?" 

"0,  everything  has  been  disagreeable  to-night.  I 
was  tired  to  death  of  jigging  and  gallanting,  and  that 
bother  about  the  hornpipes.  And  I'd  got  to.  dance 
with  the  other  Miss  Gunn,''  said  Godfrey,  glad  of  the 
subterfuge  his  uncle  had  suggested  to  him. 

The  prevarication  and  white  lies  which  a  mind  that 
keeps  itself  ambitiously  pure  is  as  uneasy  under  as  a 
great  artist  under  the  false  touches  that  no  eye  detects 
but  his  own,  are  worn  as  lightly  as  mere  trimmings 
when  once  the  actions  have  become  a  lie. 

Godfrey  reappeared  in  the  White  Parlour  with  dry 
feet,  and,  since  the  truth  must  be  told,  with  a  sense  of 
relief  and  ^adness  that  was  too  strong  for  painful 
thoughts  to  struggle  with.  For  could  he  not  venture 
now,  whenever  opporti^ity  offered,  to  say  the  tend  cr- 
est things  to  Nancy  Lammeter — ito  promise  her  and 
himself  that  he  would  always  be  just  what  she  would 
desire  to  see  him?     There  was  no  dauarer  that  his 


SiLA^     MAiiX .  i>io 


«!c;i(r  win: 


■  n  1)0  recognised:  ii;^:se  were  not  da}'? 
of  active  inquiry  and  wide  report;  and  as  for  the  reg- 
istry of  their  marriage,  that  was  a  long  way  off,  buried 
in  unturned  pages,  away  from  every  one's  interest  but 
his  own.  Dunsey  might  betray  him  if  he  came  back; 
but  Dunsey  might  be  won  to  silence. 

And  when  events  turn  out  so  much  better  for  a  man 
than  he  has  had  reason  to  dread,  is.  it  not  a  proof  that 
his  conduct  has  beca  less  foolish  and  blameworthy 
than  it  might  otherwise  hav^  appeared"?  When  we 
are  treated  well,  we  naturally  begin  to  think  that"  we 
are  not  altogether  unmeritorious,  and  that  it  is  only 
just  we  should  treat  ourselves  well,  and  not  mar  our 
own  good  fortune.  Where,  after  all,^ would  be  the  use 
of  his  confessing  the  past  to  Nancy  Lammeter,  and 
throwing  away  his  happiness  1 — nay,  hers!  for  he  felt 
some  coniidence  that  she  loved  him.  As  for  the  child, 
he  would  see  that  it  was  cared  for:  he  would  never 
forsake  it;  he  would  do  everything  but  own  it.  ^^.er- 
haps  it  would  be  just  as  happy  in  life  without  being 
owned  by  its  father,  seeing  that  nobody  could  tell  how 
things  would  turn  out,  and  that — is  there  any  other 
reason  wanted? — well,  then,  that  the  father  would  be 
much  happier  without  owning  the  child. 


184  SILAS    MARKER. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

There  was  a  pauper's  burial  that  week  in  Raveloe, 
and  up  Kencli  Yard  at  Bathcrley  it  was  known  that 
the  dark-haired  woman  with  the  fair  chikU  Avho  had 
lately  come  to  lodge  there,  was  gone  away  again. 
That  was  all  the  express  note  taken  that  Molly  had 
disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  men.  But  the  un>vept 
death  wliich,  to  the  general  lot,  seemed  as  trivial  as 
the,  summer-shed  leaf,  was  charged  with  the  iorce  of 
destiny  to  certain  human  lives  that  we  know  of,  sha- 
ping their  joys  and  sorrows  even  to  the  end. 

Silas  Manier's  determination  to  keep  the  "tramp's 
child'' Mas  matter  of  hardly  less  surprising  and  iter- 
ate4  talk  in  the  village  than  the  robbery  of  his  money. 
That  softening  of  feeling  towards  him  which  dated 
from  his  misfortune,  that  merging  of  suspicion  and 
dislike  in  a  rather  contemptuous  pity  for  him  as  Jone 
and  crazy,  was  now  accompapied  with  a  more  active 
sympathy,  especially  aftiongst  the  women.  Notable 
mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  keep  children 
"whole  and  sweet;"  lazy  mothers,  who  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  interrupted  in  folding  their  arms  and 
scratching  their  elbows  by  the  mischievous  propensi-  - 
ties  of  children  just  firm  on  their  legs,  were  equally 
interested  in  conjecturing  how  a  lone  man  would 
manage^vvith  a  two-y6ar-old  child  on  his  hands,  and 


vSIL^S    MABNER.  185 

were  equally  ready  with  their  suggestions:  the  nota- 
.ble  chiefly  telling  him  what  he  had  better  do,  and  the 
lazy  ones  being  emphatic  in  telling  him  what  he  would 
never  be  able  to  do. 

Among  the  notable  mothers,  Dolly  Wintl/rop  was 
the  one  whose  neighbourly  offices  were  the  most  ac- 
ceptable to  Marner,  for  they  were  rendered  without 
any  show  of  bustling  instruction.  Silas  had  shown 
her  the  half-guinea  given  to  him  by  Godfrey,  and  bad 
asked  her  what  he  should  do  about  getting  some 
clothes  for  the  child. 

"Eii,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  "there's  no  call 
to  buy  no  .more  nor  a  pair  o'  shoes;  for  I've  got  the 
little  petticoats  as  Aaron  wore  live  years  ago,  and  it's 
ill  spending  the  nwney  on  them  l^aby-clothes,  for  the 
child  'ull  grow  like  grass  i'  May,  bless  it — that  it 
will." 

Ar.d  the  same*  day  Dolly  brought  her  bundle,  and  . 
displayed  to  Marner,  one  by  one,  the  tiny  garments  in 
their  due  order  of  succession,  most  of  them  patched 
and  darned,  biit  clean  and  neat  as  fresh-sprung  herbs. 
This  was  the  introduction  to  a  great  ceremony  with 
soap  and  water,  from  which  baby  came  out  in  new 
beauty,  and  sat  on  Dollys  knee,  handling  her  toes,  and 
chuckling  and  patting  her  palms  together  with  an  air 
of  having  made  several  discoveries  about  herself, 
which  she  communicated  by  alternate  sounds  of  "gug- 
gug-gug,"  and  "inammy."  The  "mammy"  was  not 
a  cry  of  need  or  uneasiness:"  Baby  had  been  used  to 
utter  it  without  expecting  either  tender  sound  or  touch 
to  follow. 


Ibi;  SILAS.   MAItNEl: 

/'Anj'bofly  'ud  think  the  angils  in  heaven  cpnldn't 
be  pVettier,"  said  Dolly,  rubbing  the" golden  curls  and 
Ivissing  them.  "And  to  think  of  its  being  covered 
^vi'  them  dirty  rags— *-and  the  poor  mother— froze  to 
death ;  but  there's  Them  as  took  care»  of  it  and 
brought  it  to  your  door,  Master  Marnier.  The  door 
was  open,  and  it  walked  in  over  the  snow,  like  as  if  it 
had  been  a  little  st'vw'l  r'^l»i!i  Didn't  yon  say  the 
door  was.  open?'' 

"Yes,"  said  Silas,  meditatively.  "Yes — the  door 
•was  opeu.  The  money \^  gone  I  don't  know  where, 
and  this  is  come  from  I  doli't  know  where."' 

He  had  not  mentioned  to  any  one  his  unconscious- 
ness'of  the  child's  entrance,',  shrinking  from  questions 
which  might  lead  ^o  the  fact  lie  hiipself  suspected— 
namely,  that  he  had  been  in  one  of  his  trances. 

"Ah,"  said  Dolly,  with  sootliing  gravity,  "it's  like 
the  night  and  the  morn \ng,  and  the  sfleeping  and  the 
waking,  and  the  rain  and  the  harvest'— one  goes  and 
the  other  comes,  and  we  know  nothing  how  nor 
where.  We  may  strive  and^scrat  and  fend,  but  it's 
little  we  can  do  arter  all — the  big  things  come  and  go 
wi'  no  striving  o'  our'n — they  do,  that  tliey  do;  and  I 
think  you're  in  the  right  on  it  to  keep  the  little  un. 
Master  Marner,  seeing  as  it's  been  sent  to  you,  though 
there's  folks  as  think  ditTerent.  You'll  happen  be  a 
bit  moithcred  with  it  while  it's  so  little;  but  I'll  come, 
and  v/elcome,  and  see  to  it  for  you:  I've  a  bit  o'  time 
to  spare  most  days,  for  when  one  gets  up  betimes  i' 
the  morning,  the  clock  seems  to  stan'  still  tow'rt  ten, 
afore  it's  time  to  so  about  the.  victual.     So,  as  I  say, 


""'  .'JlJ.At;     MAKJSEU.  ■  18.7 

,I'll  come  aud  sec  to  thechild  for  you,  and  wekorae." 
"Thank  you  ....  kindly,'*  said  Silas,  hesitating  a 
little.  "I'll  be  gladif  you^ll  tell  me  things.  Bat," 
lie  added,%inea8ily,  loaning  forward  to  look  at  Baby 
with  some  jealousy,  as  she  was  resting  her  head  back- 
ward against  Dolly's  arm,  and  eyeing  him  contentedly 
from  a  distance — "But  I  want  to  do  things  for  it  my- 
self, else  it  may  get  fond  o'  somebody  else,  and  not  fond 
()' mc.  I've  been  used  to  fending  for  myself  in  the 
house- — I  can  learn,  I  can  learn." 

"Eh,  to  be  sure,"  said  Dolly,  gently.  "I've  seen 
men  as  are  wonderful  handy  wi'  children.  The  mqn 
are  awk'ard  and  contrairy  mostly,  God  help  'em — but 
when  the, drink's  out  of  'em,  they  aren't  unsensible, 
though  they're  bad  for  leeching  and  bandaging — so 
fiery  and  unpatient.  Yoi^  see  this  goes'  first,  next  the 
skin,"  proceeded  Dolly,  taking  up  the  little  shirt,  and 
putting  it  on. 

■  Yes,"  said  Marner,  docilely,  bringing  his  eyes  very 
close,  that  they  might  be  initiated  in  the  mysteries; 
whereupon  Baby  seized  his  head  with1)oth  her  small 
arms,  and  put  h^r  lii-s  aafainst  his  face  with  purring 
noises. 

"  See  there,"  said  Dolly,  with  a  woman's  tender  taet, 
"she's  fondest  o'  you.  She  wants  to  go  o'  your  lap, 
I'll  be  bound.  Go,  then:  take  her.  Master  Marner; 
you  can  put  the  thing:;;  on,  and  then  you  can  say  as 
you've  done  for  her  from  the  first  of  her  Goming  to 

YOU." 

Marner  took  her  on  his  lap,  trembling  with  an  emo- 
tion mj'sterious   to   ^'ir^^^ir   -f  -omething  unknown  ■ 


188  SILAS    MARNEE. 

dawning  on  his  life.  Thought  and  feeling  NVeire  so- 
confused  within  him,  that  if  he  had  tried  to  give  them 
utterance,  he  could  only  have  said  that  the  child  was. 
come  instead  of  the  gold^ — that  the  gold  had  turned 
into  the  child.  He  took  the  garments  from  Dolly, 
and  put  them  on  under  her  teaching;  interrupted,  of 
course,  by  JBaby's  gymnastics. 

"There,  then!  Why,  you  take  to  it  quite  easy.  Mas- 
ter Manier."'  siaid  Dolly ;  "but  what  shall  you  do  when 
you're  forced  to  sit  in  your  loom?  For  she'll  get 
busier 'and  mischievouser  every^  day — she  will,  bless 
her.  It's  lucky  you've  got  that  high  hearth  i'stead  of 
a  grate,  for  that  keeps  the  fire  more  out  of  her  reach; 
but  if  you've  got  anything  as  can  be  spilt  or  broke,' or 
as  is  fit  to  cut  her  fingers  oif,  she'll  be  at  it — and  it  is 
but  right  you  should  know.'' 

Silas  meditated  a  little  while  in  some  perplexity. 
"I'll  tie  her  to  the  leg  o'  the  loom,''  he  said  at  last— 
"tie  her  with  a  good  long  strip  o'  something.'' 

"Well,  mayhap,  that'll  do,  as  it's  a  little  gell,  for 
they're  easier  persuaded  to  sit  i'  one  place  nor  the  lads. 
I  know  what  the  lads  are ;  for  I've  had  four — four  I've 
had,  Grod  knows — and  if  you  was  to  take  and  tie  'em 
up,  they'd  make  a  fighting  and  a  crying  as  if  you  was 
ringing  pigs.  But  I'll  bring  3'^ou  my  little  chair,  and 
some  bits  o'  red  rag  and  things  for  her  to  play  wi' ; 
an'  she'll  sit  and  chatter  to  'cm  as  if  they  was  alive. 
Eh,  if  it  wasn't  a  sin  to  the  lads  to  wish  'em  made  dif- 
ferent, bless  'em,  I  should  ha'  been  glad  for  one  of 'em 
to  be  a  little  gell;  and  to  think  as  I  could  ha'  taught 
her  to  scoui,  and  mend,  and  the  knitting,^  and  every- 


SILAS    MARNER.  189 

fhing.     But  I  can  teach  'em  this  Httle  un,  Master  Mar- 
ner,  when  she  gets  old  enough." 

"But  she'll  be.  my  little  'un,''  said  Marner,  rather 
hastily.     "She'll  be  nobody  else's." 

"No,  to  be  sure;  you'll  have  a  right  to  her  if 
you're  a  father  to  her,  and  bring  her  up  according. 
But,"  added  Dolly,  coming  to  a  point  which  she  had 
determined  beforehand  to  touch  upon,  "you  nwist 
bring  her  up  like  christened  folk's  children,  and  take 
her  to  church,  and  let  her  learn  her  catechise,  as  my 
little  Aaron  can  say  off — the  'I  believe,'  and  every- 
thing, and  'hurt  nobody  by  word  or  deed,' — as  well  as 
if  he  was  the  clerk.  That's  what  you  must  do,  Mas- 
ter Marner,  if  you'd  do  the  right  thing  by  the  orphin 
child." 

Marner's  pale  face  dushed  suddenly  under  a  new 
anxiety.  His  mind  was  too  busy  trying  to  give  some 
definite  bearing  to  Dolly's  words  for  him  to  think  of 
answering  her. 

"And  it's  my  beUef,"  she  went  on,  "as  the  poor  lit- 
tle creatur  has  never  been  christened,  and  it's  nothing 
but  right  as  the  parson  should  be  spoke  to;  and  if  you 
was  noways  unwilling,  I'd  talk  to  Mr.  Macey  about  it 
this  very  day.  For  if  the  child  ever  went  anyways 
wrong,  and  you  hadn't  done  your  part  by  it.  Master 
Marner — 'noculation,  and  everything  to  save  it  from 
harm — it  'ud  be  a  thorn  i'  your  bed  for  ever  o'  this 
side  the  grave;  and  I  can't  think  as  it  'ud  be  easy  ly- 
ing down  for  anybody  when  they'd  got  to  another 
world,  if  they  hadn't  done  their  part  by  the  helpless 
children  as  come  wi'out  their  own  asking." 


190  SILAS    MARNEE. 

Dolly  herself  was  disposed  ip  be  silent  lui  .mjuio 
time  now,  for  she  had  spoken  from  the  depths  of  her 
own  simple  belief,  and  was  much  concerned  to  know 
whether  her  words  would  produce  the  desired  effect 
on  Silas.  He  was  puzzled  and  anxious,  for  Dolly's 
word  "christened"'  conveyed  no  distinct  meaning  to 
him.  He  had  only  heard  of  baptism,  and  had  only 
seen  the  baptism  of  gi'own-up  men  and  women. 

"What  is  it  as  you  mean  by  '  christened  ?'  ''he  said  at 
last  timidly.     "Won't  folks  be  good  to  her  without  itl" 

"  Dear,  dear !  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  with  gen- 
tle distress  and  compassion.  "Had  you  never  no  fa- 
ther nor  mother  as  taught  you  to  say  your"  prayers, 
and  as  there's  good  words  and  good  things  to  keep  us 
from  harm?'' 

\  "Yes,''  said  Silas,  in  a  low  voice;  "I  know  a  deal 
about  that-^used  to,  Used  to.  But  your  ways' are  dif- 
ferent: my  country  was  a  good  way  off""  He  paused 
a  few  moments,  and  then  added,  more  decidedly,  "  But 
I  want  to  do  everything  as  can  be  done  for  the  child. 
And  whatever's  right  for  it  i'  this  country,  and  you 
think  'ull  do  it  good,  I'll  act  according,  if  you'll  tell 
me." 

"Well,  then,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  inwardly 
rejoiced,  "I'll  ask  Mr.  Macey  to  speak  to  the  parson 
about  it;  and  you  must  fix  on  a  name  for  it,  because 
it  must^have  a  name  giv'  it  when  it's  christened." 

"My  mothers  name  was  Hephzibah,"  said  Silas, 
"and  my  little  sister  was  named  after  her." 

"Eh,  that's  a  hard  name,"'  said  Dolly.  "I  partly 
think  it  isn't  a  christened  name." 


;^iLAS  manner;  '  ]\)1 

"It's  a  Bible  name,"  said  Silas,  old  ideas  recurring. 

"Then  I've  no  call  to  speak  again'  if,"'  said  Dolly, 
ather  startled  by  Silas's  knowledge  on  this  head; 
but  you  see  I'm  no  scholard,  and  I'm  slow  at  catch- 
ing'the  words.  My  husband  says  I'm  allays  like  as 
if  I  was  putting  the  haft  for  the  bundle — that's  what 
he  says — for  he's  very  sharp,  God  help  him.  But  it 
was  awk'ard  calling  your  little  sister  by  such  a  hard 
name,  when  you'd  got  nothing  big  to  say,  like — was'nt 
it,  Master  Marner?'' 

"We  called  her  Eppie,"  said  Silas. 

"Well,  if  it  was  noways  wrong  to  shorten  the  name, 
it  'ud  be  a  deal  handier.  And  so  I'll  go  now  Master 
Marner,  and  I'll  speak  about  the  christening  afore 
dark;  and  I  wish  you  the  best  o'  luck,  and  it's  my 
belief  as  it'll  come  to  you,  if  you  do  what's  riglit  by 
ihe  orphan  child:— and  there's  the  'noculation  to  be 
seen  to;  and  as  to  washing  its  bits  o'  things,  you  need 
Iqok  to  nobody  but  me,  for  I  can  do  'em  wi'  one  hand 
.when  I've  got  my  suds  about.  Eh,  the  blessed  angil! 
You'll  let  me  bring  my  Aaron  one  o'  these  days,  and 
he'll  show  her  his  little  cart  as  his  father's  made  for 
him,  and  the  black-and-white  pup  as  he's  got  a-rear- 
ing." 

Baby  was  christened,  the  rector  deciding  that  a 
double  baptism  was  the  lesser  risk  to  incur;  and  on 
this  occasion  Silas,  making  himself  as  clean  and  tidy 
as  he  could,  appeared  for  the  first  time  within  the 
church,  and  shared  in  the  observances  held  sacred  by 
his  neighbours.  He  was  quite  unable,  by  means  of 
ly thing  he  heard  pr  saw,  to  identify  the  Raveloe  ^e- 


192  SILAS    MARKER. 

ligiori  with  his  old  faith:  if  he  couki  at  any  time  in 
his  previous  life  have  done  so,  it  must  have  been  by 
the  aid  of  a  strong  feeling  ready  to  vibrate  with  sym- 
pathy, rather  than  by  a  compiirison  of  phrases  and 
ideas;  and  now  for  long  years  that  feeling  had  been 
dormant.     He  had  no  distinct  idea  about  the  baptism 
and  the  church-going,  except  that  Dolly  had  said  it 
was  for  the  good  of  the  child;  and  in  this  way,  as^he 
weeks  grew  to  months,  the  child  created  fresh  and 
fresh  links  between  his  life  and  the  lives  from  which 
he  had  hitherto  shrunk  continually  into  narrower  iso- 
lation.    Unlike  the  gold  whicli  needed  nothing,  and 
must  be  worshipped  in  close-locked  solitude — which 
was  hidden  away  from  the  daylight,  was  deaf  to  the 
song  of  birds,  and  started  to  no  human  tones»~Eppie 
was  a  creature  of  endless  claims  and  tver  growing  de- 
sires, peeking  and  loving  sunshine,  and  living  so.unds, 
and   living  movements;  making  trial  of  everything, 
with  trust  in  new  joy,   and  stirring  the  human   kind- 
ness in  all  eyes  that  looked  on  her.     Hie  gold   had 
kept  his  thoughts  in  an  ever-repeated  circle,  leading 
to  nothing  beyond  itself;  but  Eppie  was  an  object  com- 
pacted of  changes  and  hopes  that  forced  his  thoughts 
onward,   and   carried   them  far  away  from  their  old 
eager  pacing  towards  the  same  blank  limit^carried 
them  away  to  the  new  things  that  would  come  with 
the  coming  years,  when  Eppie  would  have  learned  to 
understand  how  her  father  Silas  cared  for- her;  and 
made  him  look  for  images  of  that  time  in  the  ties  and 
charities  that  bound  together  the  families  of  his  neigh- 
bours.   The  gold  had  asked  that  he  should  sit  weav- 


^ILAS    MAKNEK.  1.;,) 

ing  longer  and  longer,  deafened  and  blinded  more  and 
more  to  all  things  except  the  monotony  of  his  loom 
and  the  repetition  of  his  web  ;  l)ut  Eppie  called  him 
'away  from  his  weaving,  and  made  him  think  all  its 
pauses  a  holiday,  reawakening  his  senses  with  her 
fresh  life,  even  to  the  old  winter-flies  that  came  crawl- 
ing forth  in  the  early  spring  sunshine,  and  warming 
him  into  joy  because  s/i^'  had  joy. 

And  when  the  sunshine  grew  strong  and  lasting, 
so  that  thfe  buttercups  were  thick  in  the  meadows, 
Silas  might  be  seen  in  the  sunny,  mid-day,  or  in  the 
late   afternoon  when   the   shadows  were  lengthening 
under  the^  hedgerows,   strolling  out  with  uncovered 
head  to  carry  Eppie  beyond  the  Stone-pits  to  wherx^ 
the  flovi^ers  grew,  till  they  reached  some  favourite 
bank  where  he  could  sit  down,   while  Eppie  toddled 
to  pluck  the  flowers,  and  make  remarks  to  the  winged 
things  that  murmured  happily  above  the  bright  petals, 
calling  "Dad-dad's"  attention  continually  by  bringing 
him  the  flowers.    .  Then  she  would  turn  her  6ar  to 
some  sudden  bird-note,  and  Silas  learned  to  please  her 
by  making  signs  of  hushed  stillness,  that  they  might 
listen  for  the  note  to  come  a^ain :   so  that  when  it 
came, '  she  set  up  her  small  back  and  laughed  with 
gurgling  triumph.     Sitting  on  the  banks  in  this  way, 
Silas  began  to  look  for  the  once  familiar  herbs  again; 
and  as  the  leaVes,  with  their  unchanged  outline  and 
markings,  lay  on  his  palm,  there  was  asensc  of  crowd- 
ing remembrances  from  which  he  turned  away  timid- 
ly, taking  refuge  in  Eppie's  little  world,  that  lay  light- 
ly on  his  enfeebled  spirit. 


As  the  child's  mind  was  growing,  into  knowledge, 
his  mind  was  growing  into  meniorj;  as  her  JiFe  un- 
folded, his  soul,  long  stupefied  in  a  cold  narrow  prison,^ 
was  unfolding  too,  and  trembling  gradually  into  fulF 
eonsciousness. 

It  was  an  influence,  which  must  gather  force  with 
CTery  new  year:  the  tones  that  stirred  Silas's  heart 
grew  articulate,  and,  called  for  more  distinct  answers; 
ihapes  and  sounds  grew  clearer  for  Eppie's  eyes  and 
ears,  and  there  was  more  that  "Dad-dad"'  was  imper- 
atively required  to  n otic i^-  and  account  for.  Also,  by 
the  time  Eppie  was  three  years  old,  she  developed  a 
fine  capacity  for  mischief,  and  for  devising  ingenious 
ways  of  being  troublesome,  which  found  much  exer- 
cise, not  only  for  Silas's  patience,  but  for  his  watch- 
fulness and  penetration.  Sorely  was  poor  Silas  puz- " 
Bled  on  such  occasions  by  the  incompatible  demands, 
of  love.  Dolly  Winthrop  told  him  punishment  was 
good  for  Eppie,  and  that,  as  for  rearing  a  child  with- 
out making  it  tingle  a  little  in  soft  and  safe  places  no>v 
and  then,  it  was  not  to  be  dolie. 

"To  be  sure,  there's  another  thing  you  might  do. 
Master  Marher,"  added  .Dolly,  meditatively:  "you 
might  shut  her  up  once  i'  the  coal-hole.  That  was 
what  I  did  wi' Aaron;  for.  I  was  that  silly  wi'  the 
youngest  lad,  as  I  could  never  bear  to  smack  him. 
Not  as  I  could  fiftd  i'  my  heart  to  let  him  stay  i'  the 
coal-hole  more  nor  a  minute,  but  it  was  enough  to 
colly  him  all  over,  so  as  he  must  be  new  washed  and 
dressed,  and  it  was  as  good  as  a  rod  to  him — that  was: 
But  I  put  it  u^xi'  your  couscienoe,  Master  Marner,  as 


there's  one  of  em  you  must  choose — ^ayther  smacking 
,  or  the  coal-hole— 'else  she'll  get  so  masterful,  there'll 
be  no  holding  her.'' 

Silas  was  impressed  with  the  melancholy  truth  of 
this  last  remark;  but  his  force  of  mind  failed  before 
the  only  two  penal  methods  open  to  him,  not  only 
because  it  was  painful  to  him  to  hurt  Eppie,  but  be- 
cause he  trembled  at  a  moment's  contention  with  her, 
lest  shie  should  love  him  the  less  for  it.  Let  even  an 
affectionate  Goliath  get  himself  tied  to  a  small  ten- 
der thing,  'dreading  to  hurt  it  by  pulling,  and  dread- 
ing still  more  to^snap  the  cord^  and  which  of  the  two, 
pray,  will  be  master?  It  was  clear  that  Eppie,  with 
her  short  toddling  steps,  must  lead  father  Silas  a  jjret- 
ty  dance  on  any  fine  morning  when  circumstances  fa- 
voured mischief. 

For  example.     He  had  wisely  chosen  a  broad  strip 
of  linen  as  a  means  of  fastening  her  to  his  loom  when 
he  was  busy:  it  made  a  broad   belt  round  her  waifet, 
and  was  long  enough  to  allow^  of  her  reaching  the 
truckle-bed   and  sitting   down   on   it,   but  not  long 
enough  for  her  to  attempt  anV   dangerous  climbing. 
One  bright  summer's  morning  Silas  had  been  more 
engrossed  than  usual  in  "setting  up"  a  new  piece  of 
work,  an  occasion  on  which  his  scissors  were  in  requi- 
sition.    These  scissorf,  owing  to  an  especial  warning  of 
Dolly's,  had  been  kept  carefully  out  of  Eppie's  reach  ,- 
but  the  click  of  them  had  had  a  pecuHar  attraction  for 
her  ear,  and,  watching  the  results  of  that  click,  she  had 
derived  the  philosophic  ■  lesson  that  the  same  cause 
would  produce  the  same  effect.     Silas  had  seated  him- 


196     •  SILAS    MARKEH.    ' 

self  in  his  ioomj  and  the  noise  of  weaving  had  be- 
gurt;  but  he  had  left  his  fecissors  on  a  ledge  which 
Eppie's  arm  was  long  enough  to  reach;  and  now,  like 
a  small  mouse,  watching  her  opportunity,  she  stole 
quietly  from  her  corner,  secured  tiie  scissors,  [\nd  tod- 
dled to  the  bed  again,  setting  up  her  back  as  a  mode 
of  concealing  the  fact.  She  had  a  distinct  intention 
as  to  the  use  of  the  scii^sors:  and  havincj  cut  the  linen 
s^trip  in  a  jagged  but  efi'ectual  manner,  in  two  moments 
she  had  run  out  at  the  open  door  where  the  sunshine 
was  inviting  her,  vv^hde  poor  Silas  believed  her  to  bo 
a  better  child  than  usual.  It  was  not  until  he  hap- 
pened to  need  his  scissors  that  the  terrible  fact  burst 
upon  him;  Eppie  ha4  run  out  by  herself — had  per- 
haps fallen  into  the  Stone-pit.  Silas,  shaken  by  the 
worst  fear  that  could  have  befallen  him,  rushed  out, 
calling  "Eppie!"  and  ran  eagerly  about  the  unen- 
closed space,  exploring  the  dry  cavities  into  Ivhich 
she  might  have  fallen,  and  then  gazing  with  question- 
ing dread  at  the  smooth  red  surface  of  the  water.  The 
cold  drops  stood  on  his  brow.  How  long  had  she 
been  out?  There  was  one  hope— that  she  had  crept 
through  the  stile  and  got  into  the  fields  where  he  ha- 
bitually took  her  to  stroll.  Cut  the  grass  was  high  in 
the  meadow,  and  there  was  no  descrying  her,  if  she 
Were  there,  except  by  a  closetsearch  that  would  ,bc 
a  trespass  on  Mr.  Osgood's  crop.  Still,  that  misdcr 
meanour  must  be  committed;  and  poor  Silas,  after 
peering  all  round  the  hedgerows,  traversed  the  grass, 
beginning  with  perturbed  vision  to  see  Eppie  behind 
every  group  of  red  sorrel,  and  to  see  her  moving  al- 


siLA^j'   MAKNEk.  197 

ways  farther qfias  he  approached.  The  meadow  was 
searched  in  vain;  ahci  he  got  over  toe  stile  into  the 
next  field,  looking  with  dying  hope  towards  a  small 
pond  which  was  nov/  reduced  to  its  summer  sliallow- 
aess,  so  as  to  leave  a  wide  margin  of  good  adhesive 
niud.  Here,  however,  sat  Eppie,  discoursing  cheer- 
fully to  her  pwii  small  boot,  which  she  was  using  as 
a  bdcket  to  convey  the  water  into  a  deep. hoof-mark, 
while  her  Httle  naked  foot  was  planted  comfortably. 
on  a  cushion  of  olive-green  mud.  A  red-headed  calf 
was  obsierving  her  with  alarmed  doubt  through  the 
opposite  hedge. 

Here  w-as  clearly  a  case  of  aberration  in  a  christen- 
ed child  V.  hich  demanded  severe  treatment;  but  Silas, 
overcome  with  convulsive  joy  at  finding  his  treasure 
again,  could  do  nothing  but  snatch  her  up,  and  cover 
her.  with  half-sobbing  kisses.  It  was  not  until  he  had 
carried  her  home,  and  had  begun  to  think  of  the  nec- 
essary washing,  that  he  recollected  the  need  that  he 
should  punish  Eppie,  and  "make  her  remember.'' 
The  idea  that  siic  might  run  away  again  and  come  to 
jiarm,  gave  him  unusual  resolution,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  determined  to  try  the  coai-hole — a  small  clo- 
set near  the  hearth. 

''  INaughty,  naughty  Eppie,"  he  suddenly  began, 
holding  her  on  his  kned,  and  pointing  to  her  mudd}^ 
feet  and  clothes — "naughty  to  cut  with  the  scissors, 
^and  run  away.  Eppie  nuist  go  into  the  coal-hole  for 
being  naughty.  '  Daddy  muat  put  her  in  the  coal- 
hole/' 

He  half  expcqted  ^hat  this  would  be  shock  enough, 


ly8  .     SILAS    MAKsNKli. 

and  thaLEppie  would  begin  to  cry.  .But  tiistead  of 
that,  she' began  to^hake  hersMf  on  'hjs.kuee,  as  if  the 
proposition  opened  a  pleasing  novelty.  Seeing  that 
he  must  proceed  to  extremities,  he  pat  her  into  the 
coal-hole,  and  held  the  door  closed,  with  a  trembling 
sense  that  ho  ".vas  using  a  strong  measure.  For  a  moi^ 
ment  there, was" silence,  but  then,  came  a  little  cry: 
*'Opy,  opy,"  and  Silas  let  her  out  again,  saying, 
"Now  Eppi6  'ull  never  be  naughty  again,  else  she 
must  go  in  tlic  coal-hole — a  black  naughty  place." 

The  weaving  must  stand  still  a  lonii  while  this 
morning,  for  now  Eppie  must  be  washed  and  have 
clean  clothes  ou;  but  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  this 
piinishment  would  have  a  lasting  effect,  and  save  time 
in  future- — though,  perhaps,  it  vtould  have  been  better 
if  Eppie  had  cried  more, 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  clean  again,  and  Silas  hav- 
ing turned  his  back  tosee  what  he  could  do  with  the 
linen  band,  threw  it  down  again  with  the  reflection 
that  Eppie  would  be  good  without  fastening  for  the. 
rest  of  the  morninjj.  He  turned  round  an^aiin,  and  was 
going  to  place  her  in  her  little  chair  tiear  the  loom, 
when  she  peeped  out  at  him  with  black  face  and  hands 
again,  and  said,  "Eppie  in  de  toal-hole!" 

This  total  failure  of  the  coal-hole  discipline  shook 
Silas's  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  punishment.  *'She'd 
take  it  all  for  fun,''  he  observed  to  Doily,  ''if  I  did'nt 
hurt  her,  and  that  I  can't  do,  Mrs.  Winthrop.  If  she 
makes  me  a  bit  of  trouble,  !  can  bear  it.  And  she's 
got  no  tricks  but  what  she']]  grow  out  of" 

'?Well,  that's  partly  true,    Master  Mfirner,'"  ?aid 


SILAS    UkUKiuR.  19I!> 

Dolly,  eyn>pathelically ;^ " and  ifyoii  can^t  bring. your 
ipind  to  frighten  her^olf'touching  things,  you  miist  do 
what  you  can  to  keep  'em  out  of  her  way.  That'g 
v/hat  I  do  vvi'  the  pups  as  the  lads  are  allays  a-rearing. 
They  z^;i//  worry  and  gnaw — worry  and  gnaw  they 
will,  if  it  was  one's  Sunday  cap  as  hung  anywhere  so 
as  they  could  drag  it.  They  know  no  difference, 
God  help  'em:  it's  the  pushing  o'  the  teeth  as  seU 
them  on,  that's  what  it  is."" 

So  Eppie  was  reared  without  punishment,  the  bur- 
den of  her  misdeeds  being  borne  vicariously  by  father 
Silas.  The  stone-hut  was  made  a  soft  nest  for  her, 
lined  with  downy  patience  :  and  also  in  the  world  that 
lay  beyond  the  stone-hut  for  her,  she  knew  nothing 
of  frowns  and  denials. 

Notwithstanding  the  difficulty  of  carrying  her  and 
his  yarn  or  linen  at  the  same  time,  Silas  took  her  with 
him  in  most  of  his  journeys  to  the  farm-houses,  un- 
wilJing  to  leave  her  behind  at  Dolly  Winthrop's,  who 
was  always  ready  to  take  care  of  her;  and  little  curly- 
headed  Eppie,  the  Weaver's  child,  became  iin  object  of 
interest  at  several  out-lying  homesteads^  as  well  as  in 
the  village.  Hitherto  he  had  been  treated  very  much 
as  if  he  had  been  a  useful  gnome  or  brownie — a  queer 
and  unaccountable  creature,  who  must  necessarily  be 
looked  at  with  wondering  curiosity  and  repulsion,  and 
with  whom  one  would  be  glad  to  make  all  greetings 
and  bargains  as  brief  as  possible,  but  who  must  be 
dealt  with  in  a  propitiatory  way,  and  occasionally 
have  a  present  of  pork  or  garden-stuff  to  carry  home 


20t'  sir,.AS    mArnek; 

with  him,  seeing  tiiut  witiiout  him  therje  ,wns  no  get- 
ting the  yarn  woven.  But  n(fw  Silas  met  with  open 
smiling  ilrces  uud  cheerful  questioning,  as  a  person 
whose  satisfactions  atid  difficulties  could  be  under- 
stood. Everywhere  he  must  sit  a  little  and  talk  about' 
the  child,  and  words  of  interest  were  always  ready  for 
him:  "Ah,  Master  Marner,  you'll  be  lucky  if  she  takes 
the  measles  soon  and  easy!" — or,  "Why,  there  isn't 
many,  lone  men  'ud  ha'  been  wishing  to  take  up  with 
a  little  un  like  that:  but  I  reckon  .the  weaving  makes 
you  handier  than  men  as  do  out-door  work — you're 
'partly  as  handy  as  a  woman,  for  weaving  comes  next 
to  spinning.''  Elderly  masters  and  mistresses,  seated 
observantly  in  large  kitchen  arm-chairs,  shook  their 
heads  over  the  ndifficulties  attendant  on  rearing  chil- 
dren, felt  Eppie's  round  arms  and  legs,  and  pronounced* 
them  remarkably  firm,  and  told  Silas  that,  if  she  turn- 
ed out  well  (which,  however,  there  was  no  telling),  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing  for  him  to  have  a  steady  lassto 
do  for  him  when  he  got  helpless.  Servant  maidens 
were  fond  of  carrying  her  out  to  look  at  the  hens  and 
chickens,  or  to  see  if  any  cherries  could  be  shaken 
down  in  the  orchard;  and  the  small  boys  and  girls 
approached  her  slowly,  with  cautious  movements  and 
steady  gaze,  like  little  dogs  face  to  face  with  one  of 
their  own  kind,  till  attraction  had  reached  the  point 
at  which  the  soft  lips  were  put  out  for  a  kiss.  No 
child  was  afraid  of  approaching  Silas  when  Eppic  was 
near  him ;- there  was  no  repulsion  around  him  now, 
either  for  young  or  old;  for  the  little  child  had  come 


SILAS    MAH^'ER.  2Ul 

to  link  him  oiice  more  with  the  Avhole  worifh  There- 
was  love  between  himaftd  the  child' tliat  blent  them 
into  one,  ami  there  was  love  between  the  child  and 
the  world,  from  men  and  women  with  parental  looks 
and  tones  to  the  red  lady-birds  and  the  round  peb- 
j)les. 

Silas  began  now  to  think  of  Raveloe  hfe  entirely  in 
^'olution    to    Eppic:    slie  must  have    everytlyng  that 

vvas  a  good  in' Raveloe;  and  he  listened  docilely,  that 
-he  might  come  to  understand  better  what,  this  life 
was,  from  which,  for  fifteen  years,  he  had  stood  aloof 
as  from  a  strange  thing  with  which  he  could  have  no 
communion:  as  some  mail  .who  has  a  precious  plant, 
to  which  he  would  give  a  nurturing  home  in  a  new 

L>il,  thinks  of  the  rain  and  sunshine,  and  a]l  influences, 
i^  relation  to  his  nursling,  an'd  asks  industriously  for 
all  knowledge  that  will  help  him  to  satisfy  the  wants 
of  the  searching  roots,  or  to  guard  leaf  and  bud  from 
invading  harm.  The  disposition  to  hoard  had  been 
utterly  crushed  at  the  very  first  by  the  loss  of  his 
long-stored  gold:  the  coins  he  earned  after\vards 
seemed  as  irrelevant  as  stones  brought  to  complete  a 
house  suddenly  buried  by  an  earthquake;  the  sense 
of  bereavement  was  too  heavy  upon  him  for  the  old 
thrill  of  satisfaction  to  arise  again  at  the  touch  of  the 
ne'wly-ea^Bd  coin.  And  now  something  had  come 
to  replace  his  hoard  which  gave  a  growing  purpose 
to' the- earnings,  drawing  his  hope. and  joy  oontiniiidlv 
onward  beyond  the  money. 

In  old  days  there  were  angels  who  came  and  tooki 


^O'J.  iiLAS    MARNilli. 

men  by  the  hnnd,-ai*cl  led  them  away  from  the  city  of 
destruction.  ^¥e.  see  no  wMte-winged  angels  now. 
But  Tct  men  arc  led  away  from  threatening  destruc- 
tion: a  hand  i8  put  into  theirs,  which  leads  them  forth 
gently  towards, a  calm  and  bright  land,  so  thai  they 
look  no  inore  backward;  and  the  hand  may  be  a  little 
child's. 


.■51LA*     Mi.liNt:R.  'JO  J 


CHAPTER  XV.      \ 

There  was  one  person,  as  you  will  believe,  who 
watched  with  keener  though  more  hidden  interest 
than  any  other,  the  prosperous  growth  of  Eppie  un- 
der the  weaver's  care.  He,  dared  not  do  anything 
that  would  imply  a  stronger  interest  in  a  poor  man's 
adopted  child  than  could  be  expected  from  the  kind- 
line!=fs  of  the  young  Squire,  when  a  chance,  meeting 
suggested  a  little  present  to  a  simple  old  fellow  whom 
others  noticed  with  good  will;  but  he  told  himself 
that  the  time  would  come  when  he  might  do  some- 
thing towards  furthering  the  welfare  of  his  daughter 
without  incurring  suspicions.  Was  he  very  uneasy 
in  the  mean  time  at  his  inability  to  give  his  daughter 
her  birthright ?  I  cannot  say  that  he  was.  The 
child  was  being  taken  care  of,  and  would  very  likely 
be  happy,  as  people  in  humble  stations  often  were — 
happier,  perhaps,  than  those  who  ar^  brought  up  in 
luxury. 

That  faniQus  ring  that  pricked  its  owner  when 
he  forgot  duty  and  followed  desire — I  wonder  if  it 
pricked  very  hard  when  he  set  out  on  the  chase,  or 
whether  it  pricked  but  lightly  then,  and  only  pierced 
to  the  quick  when  the  chase  had  long  been  ended, 
and  hope,  folding  her  'v^'ings,  looked  backward  and  be- 
oam©  ro^e<  ? 


204  {JiJLAS    MAUNEK. 

Godfrey  Cass's  cheek  and  eye  were  brighter  than  ^ 
ever  now.  Hfe  was  so  undivided  in, his  aims  that  he 
seemed  Hke  a  man  of  firmness.  No  Dunsey  had.  come 
back':  people  had  made  up  their  minds  that  he  was 
gone  for  a  soldier,  or  gone  "out  of  the  country,''  and 
no  one  cared  to  be  specific  in  their  inquiries  on  a  sub- 
ject deUcate  to  a  respectable  family.  Godfrey  had 
ceftsed  to  see  tjie  shadow  of  Dunsey  across  his  path; 
and  the  path  now  lay  straight  forward  to  ,the  acTom- 
phshment  of  his  best,  longest-cherished  wishes.  Eve- 
rybody said  Mr.  Godfrey  had  taken  the  right  turn;  and 
it  was  pretty  clear  what  would  be  the  end  of  things,' 
for  there,  were  not  many  days  in  the  week  that  he  was 
not  seen  riding  to-  the  Warrens.  Godfrey  himself, 
when  he  was  asked  jocosely  if  the  day  had  been  fixed, 
smiled  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  a  lover  who 
could  say  "yes,"  if  he  liked. .  He  felt  a  reformed  man, 
delivered  from  temptation;  and  the  vision  of  his  future 
life  seemed  to  him  as  a  promised  land  for  which  he 
had  no  cause  to  fight.  He  saw  himself  with  all  his  hap- 
piness centred  on  his  own  hearth,  v^here  Nancy  would 
.smile  on  him  as  he  played  with  the  children. 

And  that  other  child— not  on  the  hearth— he  would 
..not  forget  it;  he  would  see  that  it  was.  well  provided 
for.     That  was  a  father's  duty. 


PART  It 


SUULS    UAtaiiitt^. 


CHAPTER  XVI.    ' 

It  waa  a  bright  autumn  Sunday,  sixteen  years  after 
Silas  Marner  had  found  his  new  treasure  on  the  hearth. 
The  bells  of  the  old  Kaveloe  church  were  ringing  the, 
cheerful  peal  which  told  that  the  morning  service  was 
ended;  and  out  of  the  arched  doorway  in  the  tower- 
came  slowly,  retarded  by  friendly  greetings  and  ques- 
tions, the  richer  parishioners  who  .  had  chosen  this 
bright  Sunday  morning  as  eligible  for  church-going. 
It  was  khe  rural  fashion  of  that  time  for  the  more  im- 
portant members  6f  the  congregation  to  depart  first, 
w,}^\le  their;  humbler  neiglibours  waited  and  looked  on, 
stroking  their  bent  heads  or  dropping  their  curtsies  to 
any  large  ratepayer  who  turned  to  notice  them. 

Foremost  among  these  advancig  groups  of  well- 
clad  people  there  are  some  whom  we  shall  rfecognise, 
in  spite  of  Time,,  who.  has  laid  his  hand  on  them  all. 
The  tall  blond  man  of  forty  is  not  much  changed  in 
feature  from  the  Godfrey  Cass  of  six-and-twenty:  he 
is  only  fuller  in  flesh,  and  has  only  lost  the  indefinable 
look  of  youth — a  loss  which  is  marked  even  when  the 
eye  is  undulled  and  the  wrinkles  are  not  yet  come. 
Perhaps  the  pretty  woman,  not  much  younger' than 
he,  who  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  is  more  changed  than 
her  husband':  the  lovely  bloonl  that  used  to  be  always 
on  her  cheek  now  comes  but  fitfully  with  the  fre«h 


208  ,.      SILAS  .  ilAHNEU. 

morning  air  or  witk  some  strong  surprise;  yet  to  all 
Who  love  linman  faces  best  for  what  they  tell  of  human 
experience,  Nancy's  beauty  has  a  hei'ghtehed  interest. 
Oftei}  the  soul  is  ripened  int(^  fuller  goodness  while 
age  has  spread  an  ugly  film,  so  that  mere" glances  can  ^ 
never  divine  the  preciousncss  of  the  fruit.  '  But  the 
years  have  not  been  so  cruel  to  Nancy..  The  firm  yet 
placid  mouth,  the  clear  veracious  glance  of  the  brown 
eyes,  speak  now  of  a  nature  that  has  been  tested  and 
has  kept  its  highest  qualities;  and  even  the  costume, 
with  its  dainty  neatness  and  purity,  baa- more  signifi- 
cance now  the  coquetries  of  youth  can  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  (any  higher  title  has 
died  away  from  Raveloe  lips  since  the  old  Squire  was 
gat^iered  to  his  fathers,  and  his  inheritance  was  di-\ 
vided)  have  turned  round  to  look  for  ihe  tall  aged 
man  and  the  plainly-dressed  woman  w'ho  are  a  little 
behind — Nancy  having  observed  that  they  must  w^it 
for  "Father  and  Priscilla — and  now  they  all  turn 
into  a  narrow.er  path  leading  across  the  churchyard  to 
a  small  gate,  opposite  the  ^Red  House.  We  will  not 
follow  them  now:  for  may  there  not  be  some  others 
in  this  departing  congregation  whom  we  should  Jike 
to  see  again — some  of  those  who  are  not  likely  to  be 
handsomely  clad,  and  whom  we  may  not  recognise  so 
easily  as  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  Red  House  ? 

But  it  is  impossible  to  mistake  Silas  Marner.  His 
large  brown  eyes  seem  to  have  gathered  a  longer  vi- 
sion, as  is  the  way  with  eyes  that  have  been  short- 
sighted in  early  life,  and  they  have  .a  lees  vague,  ^  . 


SILAS    MARJtEB.  "200 

more  answering  look;  but  in  everything  else  one  sees 
signs  of  a  frame  much  enfeebled  by  the  lapse  of  the 
sixteen  years.  The  weaver's  bent  shoulders  and  white 
hair  give  him  almost  the  look  of  advanced  age,  though 
he  is  not  more  than  five-and-fifty ;  but  there  is  the 
freshest  blossom  of  youth  clo§c  by  his  side-^a  blonde 
dimpled  girl  of  eighteen,  who  has  vainly  tried  to  chas- 
tise her  curly  auburn  hair  into  smoothness  under  her 
brown  bonnet:  the  .hr.ir  ripples  as  obstinately  as  a 
brooklet  under  the  March  breeze,  and  the  little  ring- 
lets burst  away  from  the  restraining  comb  behind  and 
show  themselves  below  the  bonnet-crown.  Eppie 
cannot  help  being  rather  vexed  about  her  hair,  for 
there  is  no  other  girl  in  Raveloe  who  has  hair  at  all 
like  it,  and  she  thinks  hair  ought  to  be  smooth.  She 
does  not  like  to  be  blameworthy  even  in  small  things: 
you  see  how  neatly  her  prayer.-book  i:^  folded  in  her 
spotted  handkerchief 

-  That  good-looking  young  fellow,  in  a  new  fustian 
suit,  who  walks  behind  her,  is  not  quite  sure  upon  the 
question  of  hair  in  the  abstract,  when  Eppie  puts  it  to 
him,  and  thinks  that  perhaps*  straight  hair  is  the  best 
in  general,  but  he  doesn't  want  Eppie'»  hair  to 'be  dif- 
ferent, .  She  surely  divines  that  there  is  some  one  be- 
hind'her  who  is  thinking  about  her  very  particularly, 
and  mustering  courage  to  come  to  her  side  as  soon  as 
they  are  out  in  the  lane,  else  why  should  she  look 
rather  shy,  and  take  care  not  to  turn  her  head  from 
her  father  Silas,  to  whom  she  keeps  murmuring  little 
sentences  as  to  who  was,  at  church  and  who  was  not 

14 


210  SILAS    MAKNE^R. 

at  church,  and  how  pretty  the  red  mountain-ash  is 
over  the  Rectory  wall? 

"I  wish  we  had  a  little  garden,  father,  with  double 
daises  in,  like  Mrs.  Winthrop's,"  said  Eppie,  when 
they  were  out  in  the  lane;  "only  they  say  it  'ud  take 
a  deal  of  digging  and  bringing  fresh  soil — ^^and  you 
couldn't  do  that,  could  you,  fether  ?  Anyhow,  I 
shouldn't  like  you  to  do  it,  for  it  'ud  be  too  hard 
work  for  you." 

"Yes,  I  could  do  it,  child,  if  you  want  a  bit  o'  gar- 
den: these  long  evenings,  I  could  work  at  taking  in 
a  little  bit  o'  the  waste,  just  enough  for  a  root  or  two 
o'  flowers  for  you;  and  again,  i'  the  morning,  I  could 
have  a  turn  wi'^  the  spade  before  I  sat  down  to  the 
loom.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  as  you  wanted 
ft  bit  o'  garden?'' 

"/  can  dig  it  for  you.  Master  Marner,''  said  the 
young  man  in  fustian,  who  was  now  by  Eppie's  side, 
entering  into  the  conversation  without  the  trouble  of 
formalities.  "It'll  be  play  to  me  after  I've  done  my 
day's  work,  or  any  odd  bits  o'  time  when  the  work's 
slack.  And  I'll  bring  you  some  soil  from  Mr.  Cass's 
garden — he'll  let  me,  and  willing." 

"Eh,  Aaron,  my  lad,  are  you  there?"  said  Silas; 

"I  wasn't  aware  of  you;  for  when  Eppie's  talking  o' 

things,  I  see  nothing  but  what  she's  a-say in g.     Well, 

if  you  could  help  me  vvith  the  digging,  we  might  get 

'  her  a  bit  o'  garden  all  the  sooner.'' 

"Then,  if  you  think  well  and  good,"  said  Aaron, 
"I'll  come  to  the  Stone-pits  this  afternoon,  and  we'll 


SILAK    MAlWliil.  211 

•ettic  what  land's  to  be  taken  in,  and  I'll  get  up  an 
hour  earlier  i'  the  morning,  and  begin  on  it." 

"But  not  if  you  don't  promise  mc  not  to  work  at 
the  hard  digging,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "For  I  shouldn't 
ha'  said  anything  about  it,''  she  added,  half- bashfully, 
half- roguishly,  "only  Mrs.  Winthrop  said  as  Aaron 
'ud  be  S9  good,  arid — " 

"And  you  might  ha"  known  it  without  mother  tell- 
ing you,"  said  Aaron.  "And  Master  Marner  knows 
too,  I  hope,  as  I'm  able  and  willing  to  do  a  turn  o' 
work  for  him,  and  he  won't  do  me  the  unkindness  to 
anyways  take  it  out  o'  my  hands." 

"There^  now,  father,  you  won't  work  in  it  till  it's 
all  easy,"  said  Eppie,  "and  you  and  me  can  mark  out 
the  beds,  and  make  holes. and  plant  the  roots.  It'll 
be  a  deal  liveher  at  the  Stone-pits  when  we've  got 
Bome  flowers,  for  I  always  think  the  flowers  can  see 
us  and  know  what  we're  talking  about.  And  I'll  have 
a  bit  o'  rosemary,  and  bergamot,  and  thyme,  because 
they're  so  sweet-smelling;  but  there\s  no  lavender 
only  in  the  gentlefolks'  gardens,  I  think.'' 

"That's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  some," 
said  Aaron,  "for  I  can  bring  you  slips  of  anything; 
I'm  forced  to  cut  no  end  of  'em  when  I'm  gardening, 
and  throw  'em  away  mostly.  There's  a  big  bed  o' 
lavender  at  the  Red  House:  the  missis  ii  very  fond 
of  it." 

"Well,  said  Silas,  gravely,  "so  as  you  don't  make 
free  for  us,  or  ask  for  anything  as  is  worth  much  at 
the  Red  House;  for  Mr.  Cass's  been  so  good  to  us,  and 
built  US  up  the  new  end  o'  the  cottage,  and  givea  us 


212  SU.AS    MAlUfMl. 

beds  and  things,  as  I  couldn't  abide  to  be  imposin'  for 
garden-stuff  or  anything  else.'' 

"No,  no,  there's  no  imposing,"  said  Aaron;  "  there's 
never  a  garden  in  all  the  parish  but  what  there's  endr 
less  waste  in  it  for  want  o'  somebody  as  could  use 
everything  up.  It's  what  I  think  to  myself  some- 
tinies,  as  there  need  nobody  run  short  o'  victuals  if 
the  land  was  made  the  most  on,  and  there  was  never 
a  morsel  but  what  could  find  its  way  to  a  mouth.  It 
sets  one  thinking  o'  that — gardening  does.  But  I 
must  go  back  now,  else  mother  'ull  be  in  trouble  as 
I  aren't  there." 

"Bring  her  with  you  this  afternoon,  Aaron,''  said 
Eppie;  "I  shouldn't  like  to  fix  about  the  garden,  and 
her  not  know  everything  from  the  first — should  you, 
father?" 

"Ay,  bring  her  if  you  can,  Aaron,"  said  Silas; 
"she's  sure  to  have  a  word  to  say  as'U  help  us  to  set 
things  on  their  right  end.'' 

Aaron  turned  back  up  the  village,  while  Silas  and 
Eppie  went  on  up  the  lonely  sheltered  lane. 

"0  daddy!''  she  began,  when  they  were  in  privacy, 
clasping  and  squeezing  Silas's  arm,  and  skipping  roi/nd 
to  give  him  an  energetic  kiss.  "My  little  old  daddy! 
I'm  so  glad.  I  don't  think  I  shall  want  anything  else 
when  we've  got  a  little  garden;  and  I  knew  Aaron 
would  dig  it  for  us,"  she  went  on  with  roguish  tri- 
umph— "I  knew  that  very  well." 

*'  You're  a  deep  little  puss,  you  are,"  said  Silas,  with  the 
mild  passive  happiness  of  love-crowned  age  in  his  face; 
**but  you'll  make  yourself  fine  and  behijldep  to  Aaron.*' 


ilLAS    MAK^'Eli.  2  IS 

,  "0  no,  I' shan't,''  said  Eppie,  laughing  .and  frisking; 
"he  likes  it." 

"Come,  Come,  let  me  carry  your  prayer-book,  else 
you'll  be  dropping  it,  jumping  i'  that  \va/.'' 

Eppie  was  now  aware  that  her  behaviour  was  un- 
der observation,  but  it  was  only  the  observation  of  a 
friendly  donkey,  browsing  with  a  log  fastened  to  his 
foot — a  meek  donkey,  not  scornfully  critical  of  human 
trivialities,  but  thankful  to  share  in  them,  if  possible, 
by  getting  his  nose  scratched;  and  Eppie  did  not  fail 
to  gratify  him  with  her  usual  notice,  though  it  was  at- 
tended with  the  inconvenience  of  his  following  them, 
painfully,  up  to  the  very  door  of  their  home. 

But  the  sound  of  a  sharp  bark  inside,  as  Eppie  put 
the  key  in  the  door,  modified  the  donkey's  views,  and 
he  limped  away  again  without  bidding.  The  sharp 
bark  was  the  sign  of  an  excited  welcome  that  was 
awaiting  them  from  a  knowing  brown  terrier,  who, 
after  dancing  at  their  legs  in  an  hysterical  manner, 
rushed  with  a  worrying  noise  at  a  tortoise-shell  kitten 
under  the  loom,  and  then  rushed  back  with  a  sharp 
bark  again,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  have  done  my  duty 
by  this  feeble  creature,  you  perceive;"  while  the  lady- 
mother  of  the  kitten  sat  sunning  her  white  bosom  in 
the  window,  and  looked  round  with  a  sleepy  airof  .ex- 
l^cting  caresses,  though  she  was  not  going  to  take  any 
trouble  for  them. 

The  presence  of  this  happy  animal  life  was  not  the 
only  change  which  had  come  over  the  interior  of  the 
stone  cottage.  There  was  no  bed  now  in  the  living 
room,  and  the  imaW  space  was  well  filled  with  decent 


214  '  'ilLAS    MARKER 

turnitnre,  aii  brifrbt  ?\nd  clean  enough  to  satisfy  Dolly* 
Wmthrop'seye.  The  oaken  table  and  three-cornered 
oaken  chair  were  hardly  what  was  Hkely  to  be  se.on 
in  so  poo^  a  cottage:  they  had  come,  with  the  beds 
and  other  things,  from  the  Red  House;  for  Mr.  God-- 
frey  Cass,  as  every  one  said  in  the  village,  did  very 
kindly  by  the  weaver;  and  it  was  nothing  but  right  a 
man  should  be  looked  on  and  helped  by  those  who 
could  afibrd  it,  when  he  had  brought  up  an  orphan 
child,  and  been  father  and  mother  to  her — and  had 
lost  his  money  too,  so  as  he  had  nothing  but  what  he 
worked  for  week  by  week,  and  when  the  weaving  was 
going  down  too — for  there  was  less  and  less  flax  spun 
— and  Master  Marner  was  none  so  young.  Nobody 
was  jealous  of  the  weaver,  for  he  was  regarded  as  an 
exceptional  person,  whose  claims  on  neighbourly  help 
were  not  to  be  matched  in  Raveloe.  Any  supersti- 
tion that  remained  concerning  him  had  taken  an  en- 
tirely new  color;  and  Mr.  Macey,  now  a  very  feeble 
old  man  of  fourscore  and  six,  never  seen  except  in  his 
chimney-cornor  or  sitting  in  the  sunshine  at  his  door- 
sill,  was  of  opinion  that  when  a  man  had  done  what 
Silas  had  done  by  an  orphan  child,  it  was  a  sign  that 
his  money  would  come  to  light  again,  or  leastwise 
that  the  robber  would  be  made  to  answer  for  it — for, 
as  Mr.  Macey  observed  of  himself,  his  faculties  wert 
as  strong  as  ever. . 

Silas  sat  (J<^wn  now  and  watched  Eppie  with  a  sat- 
isfied gaze  as  she  spread  the  clean  cloth,  and  set  on  it 
the  potato-pie,  warmed  up  slowly  in  a  safe  Sunday 
fashion,  by  being  put  into  a  dry  pot  over  a  sl<wly*dy«- 


«ILAS    MARNER.  ^10 

ing  fire,  r.s  the  best  substitute  for  an  oven.  For  Silas 
would  not  consent  to  have  a  grate  and  oven  added  to 
his  conveniences:  he  loved  the  old  brick  hearth  as  he 
had  loved  his  brown  pot — and  was  it  not  there  when 
he  had  found  Eppie ?  The  j^ods  of  the  hearth  exist 
for  us  still;  and  let  all  new  faith  be  tolerant  of  that 
fetish'ism,  lest  it  bruise  its  own  roots. 

Silas  ate  his  dinner  more  silently  than  usual,  soon 
laying, down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  watching  half- 
abstractedly  Eppie's  play  with  Snap  and  the  cat,  by 
which  her  own  dining  was  made  rather  a  lengthy  bus- 
iness. Yet  it  was  a  sight  that  might  well  arrest  wan- 
dering thoughts :  Eppie,  w^ith  the  rippling  radience  of 
her  hair  and  the  whiteness  of  her  rounded  chin  and 
throat  set  off  by  the  dark-blue  cotton  gown,  laughing 
merrily  as  the  kitten  held  on  with  her  four  claws  to 
one  shoulder,  like  a  design  for  a  jug-handle,  while 
Snap  on  the  right  hand  and  Puss  0\  the  other  put  up 
their  paws  towards  a  morsel  which  she  held  out  of  the 
reach  of  both — Snap  occasionally  desisting  in  order  to 
remonstrate  with  the  cat  by  a  cogent  worrying  growl 
on  the  greediness  and  futility  of  her  conduct;  till  Ep- 
pie relented,  caressed  them  both,  and  divided  the 
morsel  between  them. 

But  at  last  Eppie,  glancing  at  the  clock,  checked  the 
play,  and  said,  "O  daddy,  you're  wanting  to  go  into 
the  sunshine  to  smoke  your  pipe.  But  I  must  clear 
away  first,  so  as  the  house  may  be  tidy  when  god- 
mother comes.     I'll  make  haste — I  won't  bo  lonflr.'' 

Silas  had  taken  to  smoking  a  pipe  daily  during  the 
last  two  years,  havin.u  been  slron^rly  urged  to  it  by  the 


2ilii  SILAS    MARNJili. 

sages,  of  Bkveloe,  as  a  practice  "good  for  the  fits;" 
and  thid  advise  was  sanctioned  by  Dr.  Kimble,  on" the 
ground  that  it  v»as  as  well  to  (r^  what  couhi  do  no 
harm— a  principle  whie^  was  made  to  answer  for  a 
great  deal  of  work  in  that  gentleman's  medical  prac- 
tice. Silas  did  not  highly  enjoy  smoking,  and  often 
wondered  how  his  neighbours  could  be  so  fond* of  it;, 
but  a  humble  sort  of  acquiescence  in  what  wa^  held  to 
be  good,  had  become  a  strong  habit  of  that  new  self 
which  had  been  developed  in  him  since  he  had  found 
Eppie  on  his  hearth:  it  had  been  the  only  clue  his  be- 
wildered mind  could  hold  by  in  cherishing  this  young- 
life  that  had  been  sent  to  him  out  of  the  darkness  into 
which  i»is  gold  liad  departed.  By  seeking  what  was 
needful  for  Eppie,  by  sharing  the  effect  that  every- 
thing produced  on  her,  he  had  himsplf  come  to  appro- 
priate the  forms  of  custom  and  belief  which  were  the 
mould  of  Raveloe  Jife ;  and  as,  with  reawakening  sen- 
sibilities, memory  also  reawakened,  he  had  begun  to 
ponder  over  the  elements  of  his  old  faith,  and  blend 
them  with  his  new  impressions,  tillJhe  recovered  a  con- 
sciousness of  unity  between  bis  past  arid  present.  The 
sense  of  presiding'  goodness  and  the  human  trust  which 
come  with  all  pure  peace  and  joy,  had  given  him  a 
■  dim  impression  that  there  had  been  some  error,  some 
mistake,  which  had  thrown  that  dark  shadow  over  thfe 
days  of  his  best  years;  and  as  it  grew  more  and  more 
easy  to  him  to  open  his  mind  to  Dolly  Winthrop,  he 
, gradually  conimunicated  to  her  all  he  could  describe 
Off  his  early  life.  The  communication  was  necessarily 
a  slow  and  difficult  proc^jss,  ior  Sila«  shiea^e  poweir 


:SILAS^MAKNEK. 


of  explanation  was  not  aidefl  by  any  readiness  of  in- 
terpretation in  Dolly,  tvhose  narrow  outward  experi- 
ence gave  her  no  key  to  strange  customs,  and  made 
every  novelty  a  source  of  wonder  that  arrested  iheni 
at  (?very  gtep  of  the  narrative.  It  was  only  by  frag- 
ments, and  at  intervals  which  left  Dolly  time  to  re- 
volve what  she  had  heard  tilVit  acquired  some  famil- 
iarity for  her,  that  Silas  at  last  arrived  at  the  climax 
of  the  sad  story — the  drayving  of  lots,  and  its  false  tes- 
timony concerning  him;  and  this  had  to  be  repeated 
in  several  interviews,  under  new  questions  on  her  part 
as  to  the  nature  of  this  plan  for  detecting  the  guilty 
and  clearing  the  innocent. 

*  "  And  yourn'i  the  same  Bible,  you're  sure  o'  that, 
Master  Marner — tae  Bible  as  you  brought  wi'  you 
from  thatcountrv — it's  the  same  as  what  they've  o^ot 
at  church,  and  frhat  Kppie's  a-learning  to  read  in?" 

"Yes,"  said  Silas,  ''erery  bit  the  same;  and  tijere's 
drawing  o'  lots  in  the  Bible,  mind  you,"  he  added,  in 
a  lower  tone. 

**0  dear,  dear,"  said  Dolly,  in  a  grieved  voice,  as  if 
she  w^ere  hearing  an  unfovourable  report  of. a  sick 
mail's  case.  She  was  silent  for  some  minutes;  at  last 
she  said, 

"There's  wise  folks,  happen,  as  knows  how  it  all 
is;  the  parson  knows,  I'll  be  boutid;  but  it  takes  big 
words  to  tell  them  thinjjs,  and  such  as  poor  folks  can't 
make  much  out  on.  I  can  never  rightly  know  the 
meaning  o'  what  I  hear  at  churcli,  only  a  bit  here  and 
there,  but  I  know  it's  good  words — I  do.  But  what 
Ika  ufK>' yiQur  mind— ^it's  this,  Master  Marner:  ag,  if 


218  iJlLAS    MARNEK, 

Them  above  had  done  the  right  thing  by  you,  They'd 
never  ha'  let  you  be  turned  out  for  a  wicked  thief 
when  you  was  innicent."  . 

"'Ah!-'  said  Silas,  who  had  now;  come  to  understand 
!  Dolly's  phraseology,  "that  was  what  fell  on  me 'like 
as  if  it  had  been  red-hot  iron;  because  you  see,  there! 
was.  nobody  as  cared  fo#  me  or  clave  to  me  above  nor' 
below.  And  him  as  I'd  gone  out  and  in  w^i'  for  ten 
year  and  more,  since  when  we  was  lads  and  went 
halves — mine  own  famil'ar  friend,  in  whom  .1  trus- 
ted, had  lifted  up  his  heel  again'  me,  and  worked  to 
ruin  me." 

"Eh,  but  he  was  a  bad  un — I  can't  think  as  there's 
another  such,"  said  Dolly.  "But  I'm  o'ercome,  Mas" 
ter  Marner;  I'm  like  as  if  I'd  waked  and  didn't  know 
whether  it  was  night  or  morning.  I  feel  somehow  as 
sure  as  I  do  when  I've  laid  something  up  though  I 
can  t  justly  put  my  hand  on  it,  as  there  was  a  right  in 
what  happened  to  you,  if  one  could  but  make  it  out; 
and  you'd  no  call  to  lose  heart  as, you  did.  But  well 
talk  on  it  again ;  for  sometimes  things  come  into  my 
head  when  I'm  leeching  or  poulticing,  or  such,  as  I 
could  never  think  on  when  I  was  sitting  still.'' 

Dolly -was  too  useful  a  woman  not  to  have  many 
opportunities  of  illumination  of  the  kind  she  alluded 
to,  and  she  was  not  long  before  she  recurred  to  the 
subject. 

"Master  Marner,"  she  said,  one  day  that  she  came 
to  bring  home  Eppie's  washing,  "I've  been  sore  puz- 
zled for  a  good  bit  wi'  that  trouble  o'  yourn  and  the 
drawing  o'  lots;  and  it  got  twisted  hack'ards  and  for- 


SILAS    MARNKK.  219 

^ards,  as  I  didn't  know  which  end  to  lay  hqld  on.  But 
it  come  to  me  all  clear  like,  that  night  when  I  was  sit- 
ting up  wi'  poor  Bessie  Fawkes,  as  is  dead  and  left  her 
■  children  behind,  Goct.rfc^lp  'em — it  come  to  me  as  clear 
as  daylight;  but  whether  I've  got  hold  on  it  now,  or 
can  anyvyays  bring  it  to  my  tongue,s  end,  that  I  don't 
know.  For  I've  often  a  deal<  inside  me-  as  '11  njver 
come  out;  and  foi*  what  you  talk  o'  you-r  folks  in  your 
old  country  niver  saying  prayers  by  heart  nor  saying 
'em  out  of  a  book,  they  must  be  wonderful  cliver;  for 
if  I  didn't  know  'Our  jFather,'  and  little  bits  o'  good 
words  as- 1  can  carry  out  o'  church  wi'  me,  I  might  down 
o'  my  knees  every  night  but  nothing  could  I  say." 

"But  you  can  mostly  say  something  as  I  can  make 
sense  on,  Mrs.  Winthrop,''  said  Silas. 

"Well,  then,  Master  Marner,  it  come  to  me  summat 
like  this:  I  can  make  nothing  o' the  drawing  o' lots 
and  the  answer  coming  MTong;  it  'ud  mayhap  take  the 
parson  to  tell  that,  and  he  could  only  tell  us  i'  big 
words.  But  what  come  to  me  as  clear  as  the  daylight, 
it  was  when  I.  was  troubling  over  poor  Bessy  Fawkes, 
and  it  allays  comes  into  my  head  when  I'm  sorry  for 
folks,  and  feel  as  I  can't  do  a  power  to  help  'em,  not 
if  I  wa^  to  get  up  i'  the  middle  o'  tli^  night — it  comes 
into  my  head  as  Them  above  has,  got  a  deal  tenderer 
heart  nor  what  I've  got — for  I  can't  be  anyways  bet- 
ter nor  Them  as  made  me,  and  if  anything  looks  hard 
to  me,  it's  because  thei-e's  things  I  don't  know  on;  and 
forthe  matter  o'  that,  there  may  be  plenty  o'  things  I 
don't  know  on,  for  it's  little  as  I  know — that  it  is.. 
And  so,  while  I  was  thinking  o'  that,  you  come  into 


2^20  ;  SILAS    MAEiCER. 

my  mind,  Master  Marner,  and  it  all  come  pouring  in: 

if  /  felt  i'  \ny  inside  what  was  tlie  right  and  just 

thing  by  you,  and  them  as  prayed  and  drawed  the 
lots,  all  but  that  wicked  un,  if  ^A^Vd  ha'  done  the  right - 
thing  by  you  if  they  could,  isn't  there  Them  as  was  at 
the  making  on  us,'and  knows  better  and  has  a  better 
will?  And  that's  all  |i6  ever  1  csin  be  sure  on,  and 
everything  else  is  a  big  puzzle  to  me  when  I  think  on 
it.  For  there  was  the  fever  come  and  took  off  them 
as  were  full-growed.  and  le^  the  helpless  children; 
and  there's  the  breaking  o'  limbs;  and  them  as  'ud 
do  right  and  be  sober  have  to  sufier  by  them  as  are 
contrairy — eh,  there's  trouble  i'  this  world,  and  there's 
things  »8  we  can  niver  make  out  lh«  rights  on.  And 
all  as  we've  got  to  do  is  to  trusten.  Master  Marner — 
to  do  the  right  thing  as  fur  as  we  know,  and  to  trust- 
en.  For  if  US  as  knows  so  little  can  see  a  bit  o'  good 
and  rights,  we  may  be  sure  as  there's  a  good  and  a 
rights  bigger  nor  what  we  can  know — I  fe«l  it  i'  my 
own  ini^de  as  it  must  be  so.  And  if  you  could  but 
ha'  gone  on  trustening.  Master  Marner,  you  wouldn't 
ha'  run  away  from  your  fellow- creaturs  and  been  so 

lone."- 

"Ah,  but  that  'yd  ha'  been  hard,"  iaid  Silas,  in  an 
under  tone;  "it  'ud  ha'  been  hard  to  trusten  then." 

"Atid  so  it  would,''  said  Dolly,  almost  with  com- 
punction; "them  things  are  easier  said  nor  done;  and 
I'm  partly  ashamed  o'  talking."  ' 

"Nay,  nay,''  said  Silas,  "you're  i'  the  right,  Mrs. 
Winthrop — you're  i'  the  right.  There's  good  i'  this 
world,  i'  spite  &  the  trouble  and  the  wickedn^ess. 


That  drawing  o'  the  lots  is  dark;  but  thf  child  was 
sent  to  me:  there's  dealings  with  ua — tliere^  dealings." 
This  dialogue  took  place  in  Eppie's  earlier  years, 
when  Silas  had  to  part  with  her  for  two  hours  every 
day,  that  she  might  learn  to  read  at  the  dame  school, 
after  he  hnd  vainly  tried  himself  to  guide  her  in  that 
first  step  to  learning,  ^^ow  that  she  Wjfis  grown  up, 
Silas  had  often  been  iRl,  in  those  mowfnts  of  quiet 
outpouring  which  come  to  people  who  live  together 
in  perfect  love,  to  talk  with  her  too  of  the  past,  and 
how  and  why  h»  had  Jived  a  lonely  man  until  she 
had  hafzn  sent  to  him.  For  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible Tor  him  to  hide  from  Eppie  that  she  was  not 
his  own  child:  even  if  the  most  delicate  reticence  on 
the  point  could  hare  been  expected  from  Raveloe 
gossips  in  her  presence,  her  own  questions  about  her 
mother  could  not  have  been  parried,  as  she  grew  up, 
without  that  complete  shrouding  of  the  past  which 
would  have  made  a  painful  barrier  between  their 
minds.  .  So  Eppie  had  long  known  how  her  mother 
had  died  on  the  snowy  grou\id,  and  how  she  herself 
had  been  found  on  ihe  hearth  by  father  Silas,  who  liad 
taken  her  golden  curls  for  his  lost  guineas  brought 
back  to  him.  The  tender  and  peculiar  love  with  which 
Silas  had  reared  her  in  almost  inseparable  compan- 
ionship with  himself,  aided  by  the  seclusion  of  their 
dwelling,  had  preserved  her  from  the  lowering  influ- 
ences of  the  village  talk  and  habits,  and  had  kept  her 
mind  in  that  freshness  which  is  sometimes  falsely  sup- 
posed to  be  an  invariable  attribute  of  rusticity.  Per- 
fect love  has  t  br«ath  of  poetry  which  oan  exalt  the 


2ii2  ■  SiLAS    MARNEll. 

relations  of  the  least  instructed  human  beings;  and 
this  breatltpof  poetry  had  surrounded  Eppie  from  the 
time  when  she  had  followed  the  bright  gleam  that 
beckoned  her  to  Silas's  hearth;  so  that  it  is  not  sur- 
prising if,  in  other  things  besides  her  deHcate  pretti- 
ness,  she  was  not  (|aite  a  common  village  maiden,  but 
had  a  touch  of  refinement  and  fervour  which  came 
from  no  oth^pieaching  than  tWSt  of  tenderly-nurtured 
unvitiated  feeling.  She  was  too  childish  and  simple 
for  her  imagination  to  rove  into  questions  about  her 
unknown  father;  for  a  long  while  it  did  not  even  oc- 
cur to  her  that  she  must  have  had  a  father;  anssd  the 
first  time  that  the  idea  of  her  mother  having  had  a 
husband  presented  itself  to  her,  was  when  Silas  show- 
ed her  the  wedding-ring  which  had  been  taken  from 
the  wasted  finger,  and  had  been  carefully  preserved 
by  him  in  a  little  lackered  box  shaped  like  a  shoe. 
He  delivered  this  box  into  Eppie's  charge  when  she 
had  grown  up,  and. she  often  opened  it  to  look  at  the 
ring;  but  still  she  thought  hardly  at  all  about  the  fa- 
ther of  whom  it  was  the  'symbol.  Had  she  not  a  fa- 
ther very  close  to  her,  who  loved  her  better  than  any 
real  fathers  in  the  village  seemed  to  love  their  daugh- 
ters ?  On  the  contrary,  who  her  mother  was,  and  how 
she  came  to  die  in  that  forlornness,  were  questions  that 
often  pressed  on  Eppie's  mind.  Her  knowledge  of 
Mrs.  Winthrop,  who  was  her  nearest  friend  next  to 
Silas,  made  her  feel  that  a  mother  must  be  very  pre- 
cious; and  she  had  again  and  again  asked  Silas  to 
tell  her  how  her  mother  looked,  whom  she  was  like, 
and  how  he  had.  found  her  against  the  furze  bush,  led 


SILAS    MAliSliii.  22o 

towards  it  by  the  little  footsteps  and  the  outstretched 
arms.  The  furze  bush  was  still  there;  and  this  after- 
noon, when  Eppife  came  out  with  Silas  into  the"  sun- 
shine, it  was  the  first  object  that  arrested  her  eyes 
and  thoughts. 

"Father,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  gravity, 
which  sometimes  came  like  a  sadder,  slower  cadence 
across  her  playfulness,  "we  shall  take  the  furze  bush 
into  the  garden;  it'll  come  into  the  corner,  and  just 
against  it  I'll  put  snowdrops  and  crocuses,  'cause 
Aaron  says  they  won't  die  out,  but'll  always  get  more 
and  more." 

"Ah,  child,"  said  Silas,  always  ready  to  talk  when 
he  had  his  pipe  in  his  hand,  apparently  enjoying  the 
pauses  more  than  the  puffs,  "it  wouldn't  do  to  leave 
out  the  furze  bush;  and  there's  nothing  prettier,  to 
my  thinking,  when  it's  yallow  with  flowers.  But  it's 
just  come  into  my  head  what  we're  to  do  for  a  fence 
— mayhap  Aaron  can  help  us  to  a  thought;  but  a 
fence  we  must  have,  else  the  donkeys  and  things  'uU 
come  and  trample  everything  down.  And  fencing's 
hard  to  be  got  at,  by  whaf  I  can  make  out." 

"0,  III  tell  you,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,  clamping  her 
hands  suddenly,  after  a  minute's  thought  "There's 
lots  o'  loose  stones  about,  some  of  'em  not  big,  and  we 
might  lay  'em  atop  of  one  another  and  make  a  wall. 
You  and  me  could  carry  the  smallest,  and  Aaron  'ud 
carry  the  rest — I  know  he  would." 

"Eh,  my  precious  un,"said  Silas,  "there  isn't  enough 
stones  to  go  all  round;  and  as  for  you  carrying,  why, 
wi'  yeur  littl*  arms  you  eouldn't  carry  a  stone  bigger 


2tM  suA^  ^ijjsjsum. 

than  a  turnip.  You're  delicate  made,  mj  dear,"  he 
added,  with  a  tender  intonation — "that's  what  Mrs. 
Winthrop  savi." 

"0,  I'm  stronger  than,  you  think,  daddy,"  said  Ep- 
pie;  "and  if  there  wasn't  stones  enough  to  go  aU 
round,  why  they'll  go  part  o'  tbe  way,  and  then  it'll 
be  easier  to  get  sticks  and  things  for  the  rest.  See 
here,  round  the  big  pit,  what  a  many  stones!" 

She  skipped  forward  to  the  pit,  meaning  to  lift  one 
of  the  stones  and  exhibit  her  strer  fib,  but  she  started 
back  in  surprise. 

"0,  father,  just  come  and  look  here,'*  she  exclaim- 
ed— "com^  and  see  how  the  water's  gone  down  since 
yesterday.     "Why, yesterday  the  pit  was  ever  so  full!" 

"Well,  to  be  lure,''  said  Silas,  coming  to  her  side. 
"Why,  that's  the  draining  they've  begun  on,  since 
harvest,  i'  Mr.  Osgood's  fields,  Il-cckon.  The  foreman 
said  to  me  the  other  day,  when  I  paeeed  by  'cm,  'Mas- 
ter Warner,'  he  said,  *I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  lay 
your  bit  o'  waste  as  dry  as  a  bone.'  It  was  Mr.  God- 
frey Cass,  he  said,  had  gone  into  the  draining:  he'd 
been  taking  tiiese  fields  o'  Afr.  Osgood." 

"How  odd  it'll  seem  to  have  the  old  pit  dried  up," 
said  Eppie,  turning  away,  and  stooping  to  lift  rather  a 
large  stone.  "See,  daddy,  I  can  carry  this  quite  well,^. 
she,  said,  going  along  with  much  energy  for  a  few 
steps,  but  presently  letting  it  fall 

"Ah,  you're  fine  and  strong,  arn't  you?'"  said  Silas, 
while  Eppie  shook  her  aching  arms  and  laughed. 
"Couie,  corae.  let  us  go  and  sit  down  "on  the  bank 
against,  the  stile  there,  end  hare  n©  more  lifting.    You 


might  hurt  yourself,  child.  You'd  need^have  some- 
body  to  work  for  you  —  and*  my  arm  isii'i;  over 
strong."  * 

Silas  uttered  the  last  sentence  slowly,  as  if  it  im- 
plied more  than  met  the  ear;  and  Eppie,  when  they 
sat  down  on  the  bank,  nestled  close  to  his  side,  and, 
taking  hold  caressingly  of  the  arm  that  was  not  over 
strong,  held  it  on  her  lap,  while  Silas  puffed  again 
dutifully  at  the  pipe,  which  occupied  his  other  arm. 
An  fish  in  the  hedgerow  behind  made  a  fretted  screen 
from  the  sun,  and  threw  happy  playful  shadows  all 
about  them. 

"Father,''  said  Eppie,  very  gently,  after  thej  had 
been  sitting  in  silence  a  little  while,  "if  I  was 'to  be 
'married,  ought  I  to  be  married  with  my  mother's 
ring?"  ^        .        . 

Silas  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  start,  though  the 
question  fell  in  with  the  under-current  of  thought  in 
his  own  mind,  and  th'm  said,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "Why, 
Eppie,  have  you  been  a-thinking  on  it?" 

"Only  this  last  week,  father,"  said  Eppie,  ingenu- 
ously, "since  Aaron  talked  to  me  about  it." 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  said  Silas,'  still  in  the  same 
subdued  way,  as  if  he  were  anxious  lest  he  shoiild  fall 
into  the  slightest  tone  that  was  not  for  Eppie's  good. 

"He  said  he  should  like  to  be  married,  because  he 
was  a-going  in  four-and-twenty,  a^nd  had  got  a  deal  of 
gardening  work,  now  Mr.  Mott's  given  up;  and  he 
goes  twicfs  a-week  regular  to  Mr.  Cass's,  and  once  to 
Mr.  Osgood's,  and  they  are  going  to  take  him  on  at 
th«  R«ctoL7." 

15 


■J2<!  -^li.A-     MAKNEK. 

"And  vvl|o  is  it  as  he's  wanting  .to  marry?" "said 
Silas,  with  ratiier  a  s^  smile.. 

'■'Why,  me.  to  he  sure,  daddy,;'  said  Eppic,  with 
dimpling  laiig:hter,  kissing  her  fatlier's  cheek;  "as  if 
he'd  want  to  marry  anyhody  else!' 

'"And  you  m*ean  to  have  him',  do, you?"  said  Silas. 

"Yes.  some  ii me,''  said  Eppie,  "I  don't  know-when.' 
Everybody's  married  some  time,  Aaron  says.     But  I 
told  him  that  wasn't  true;  for,  I  said,  look  at  father — 
he's  never  been  married-" 

'•No,  child,"  said  Silas,  "your  father  was  a  Joue 
man  till  you  was  sent  to  him." 

•  "But  you'll  never  be  lone  agaia,  father,  '  said  Ep- 
pie, tenderly.  "That  was  what  Aaron  said — 'I  could 
never  think  o'  taking  you  away  from  Master  Marner, ' 
Eppie.'  And  I  said,* 'It  "ud  be  no  use  if  you  did, 
Aaron.'  And  he  wants  us  all  to  live  together,  so  as  » 
you  needn't  work  a  bit,  father,  only  what's  for  your 
own  pleasure;  and  he'd  be  as  good  as  a  son  tp  you— 
that  was  what  he  said." 

"xVnd  should  you  like  that,  Eppie  f  said  Silas, 
looking  at  her. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  it,  father,''  said  Eppie,  quite  sim- 
ply. "And*"  I  should  like  things  to  be  so  as  you 
"needn't,  work  much.  But  if  it  wasn't  for  that,  I'd 
rsooner  things  didn't  change.  I'm  very  happy:  I  like 
Aaron  to  be  fond  06  me,  and  come  and  see  us  often, 
and  behave  pretty  to  you — he  always  does  behave 
pretty  to  you,  doesn't  he,  father?'' 

"Yes,  child,  nobody  could  behave  better,"  said  Si- 
las, emphatically.     "He's  his  mother's  lad." 


'  :jn{  i  don't  want  any  chai>ge,  "  said  Eppic.  ''I 
sihould  like  to  go  oo  a  long,  long  while,  just  as  we  are., 
Only  Aaron  does  want  a  change;  and  he  made  mo 
cry  a  bit— only  a  l)it — ^because  he  said  I  didn't  chre 
for  him;  for  if  I  cared  for  him  I  should  want  us -to  be 
married,  as  he  did.''         -^  ' 

"Eh,  my  blessed  clnW,"  said  Silas,  laying  down  his 
pipe  as  if  it  w<M'e  ,qseless  to  pretend  to  sinokeaijy  lon- 
ger, "you  re;  o'er- young  to  be  married.  We'll  ask 
Mrs.  Winthrop— ^we'U  ask  Aaron's  rrfother  what  s/te 
thinks:  if  there's  a  right  thing  to  do,  she'll  come  at  it. 
But  there's  this  to  be  thought  on,  Eppie:  things  wiil 
change,  whether  we  like  it  or  not;  things  won't  goon 
for  a  long  while  just  as  they  are  and  no  difference.  I 
shall  get  older  and  helplesser,  ayd  be  a  burthen  on 
you,  belike,  if  I -don't  go  away  from  you  altogether. 
Not  as  I  mean  you'd  think  me  a  burden- — I  know 
you  wouldn't — but  it  'ud  be  hard  upon  you;  and  when 
I  look  forard  to  that, "  I  like  to  think  as  you'd  have 
somebody  else  besides  me — somebody  young  and 
strong,  iis'll  outlast  y6ur  own  life,  and  take  care  on 
you  to  the  end."  Silas  paused,  anjl,  resting  his  wrists 
on  hisaknees,  lifted  his  hands  up  and  down  meditative- 
ly as  he  looked  on  the  ground. 

"Then  would  you  like  me  to  he.  married,  father?" 
said  Eppie,  with  a  little  trembling  in  her^  voice. 

"I'll  not  be  the  man  to  say  no,  Eppie,"  said  Silas, 
emphatically ;  "  but  we'll  ask  your  godmother.     She'lf " 
wish  the  right  thing  by  you  and  her  son  too.'' 

"There  they  come  then,"  said  Eppie.'    "Let  us  go 


and  meet. 'em.  '  O  the  pipe!  won't  you  have  it  lit 
again,  father  1". said  Eppie,  lifting  that  medicinal  ap- 
pliance from  the  ground. 

*'Nav,  child,''  said  Silas,  "I've  done  enough  for  to-' 
day.     I  think,  mayhaj>,  a  little  of  it  does  me,  more 
■•  good  than  so  mucii  at  once." 


CHAPTEU  XVII: 

WiiiLE  Silas  and  Eppic  were  seated  on  the  bank 
discoursing  in  the  tleckered  sh^de  of  the  ash-tree,  Miss 
Priscilia  Lammeter  was  resisting  her  sister's  aro-u- 
ments,  that  it  would  be  better  to  stay  to  tea  at  the- 
Red  Hoiiser^  and  let  her  father  have  a  long  nap,  than 
drive  home  to  the  Warrens  so.  soon  after  dinner.  The 
family  party  (of  four  only)  were  seated  round  the  ta- 
ble in  the  dark  wainscoted  parlour,  with  the  Sunday 
dessert  before  them,  .of  fresh  tilberts,  apples,,  and 
pears,  duly  ornamented  with  leaves  by  Nancy's  own 
hand  before  the  bells  had  rung  for  church. 

A  great  change  had  come  over  the  dark  wainscoted 
parlour  since  we  saw  it  in  Godfrey's  bachelor  days, 
and  under  the,  wifeless  reign  of  the  old  Squire.  Now 
all  is  polish,  on  which  no  yesterday's  dust  is  ever  al- 
lowed to  settle,  from  the  yard's  width  of  oaken  boards 
round  the  ca,rpet,  to  the  old  Squire's  gun  and  whips 
and  walking-sticks,  ranged  on  the  stag  s  antlers  above 
the  mantel-piece.  .  AH  other  signs  of  sporting. and 
outdoor  occupation  Nancy  has  removed  to, another 
room;  but  she  has  brought  into  the  Red  House  the 
habit  of  filial  reverence,  and  oreserves  sacredly  in  a 
place  of  honor  these  relics  of  her  husband's  departed 
father.  The  tankards  are  on  the  side-table  still,  but 
the  lK>!»sed  piWer  in  undimm«d  by  handling'  and  (here 


MAllNEK 

are  i!o  dregs  to  send  ibrth  unpleasant  suggestions:  the 
only 'prevailing  scent  is  of  the  lavender  and  rose-leaves 
that  fill  the  vases  of  Derbyshire  sj)ar. .  All  is  purity 
and 'Order  in  this  once 'dreary  room,  for,  fifteen  years 
tigo,,  it  was  entered  by  a  new  presiding  spirit. 

"Xo'.v.  father,"  said  Nancy,  "/a-  there  any  call  ibr 
you  to  ;;ohome  to  tea?  Mayn't  yoitjust  as  well  stay 
with  us .' — such  a  beautiful  evening  as  it's  likely  to  be." . 

The  old  gentleman  had  been  talking  with  Godfrey 
about  the  increasing  poor-rate  and  the  ruinous  times, 
and  had  not  heard  the  dialogue  between  \us  daughters. 

"My  dear,  you  must  ask  Priseilla,"  he  said,  in  the 
once  firm  voice,  now  become  rather  broken.  "She 
manages  me  and  the  farm  too. " 

"And  reason  good  as  I  should  manage  you,  father,' 
said  .  Priscilla,  "else  you'd  be  giving  yourself  your 
death  with  rheumatism.  And  as  for  the  farm,  if  any- 
thing turns  out  wrong,  as  it  can't  but  do  in  these 
limes,  there's  nothing  kills  a  man  so  soon  as  having 
nobody  to  find  fault  with  but  himself.  It's  a  deal  the 
"best  way  o'  being  master,  to  let  somebody  else  do  the 
ordering,  and  keep  the  blaming  in  your  ovvn  hands. 
It  'ud  save  many  a  man  a  stroke,  /  believe." 

"Well,  well,  my  dear/'  said  her  father,  with  a  quiet 
laugh,  "I  didn't  say 'you  don't  manage  for  everybody's 
good."  „  , 

"Then  manage-  so  as  vuii  may  biay  tea,  Priscilla,'' 
said  Nancy,  putting  her,  hand  on  her  sister's  afm  affec- 
tionately. "Come*  now;  and  well  go  round  the  gar- 
den while  father  has  his  nap." 

"My  dear  child,   he'll   have  a  l)p^utiful  nap  in  the 


:>ILAS     irA.iiNKK  2y  i 

gig,  for  I  shall  ilrive.  And  as,  for  slaving  tea.  I  can't 
hear  of  it;  for  there's  tjiis  dairymaid,  now  she  knows 
she's  tp  be  married,  turned  Michaelmas,  she'd, as  lieve 
pour  the  new  milj^  into  the  pig-trough  as  into  the 
pans.  That's  the  way  with  "em  ail: ,  it's  as  if  they 
thought  the  world  'ud  be  riew-made,  because  they're 
to  be  married.  ,  So  come  and.  let  me  put  my  bonnet 
on,  and  there'll  be.  time  for  us  to  walk  round  the  srar- 
A'.'n  while  the  horse  is  being  put  in."'  "    ''    f 

When   the  sisters   were  treading  the  neatly-sv.cpt 
garden-walks,  between  the  bright  turf  that  contrasted 
.pleasantly  with  the  dark  colies  and. arches  and  Wall- 
like hedges  of  yew,  Priscilla  said-;—  ' 

"I'm  as  glad  as  anything  at  your  husband's  making 
that  exchange  o'  land  with  cousin  Ot^good,  and  begin- 
ning the  dairying,  it's  a  thousand  pities  you  didn^t 
do  it  before;  for  ifll  give  you  something  to  fill  your 
mind.  There's  nolhing  like  a  dairy  if  folks  want  a' bit 
(/  worrit  to  make  the  days  pass.  For  as  for  rubbing 
furniture,  when  you  can  once  see  your  flice  in  a  table 
there's  nothing  else,  to  look  for;  but  there's  always' • 
something  fresh  with  the  dairy;  for  even  in  the  depths 
o'  \yinter  there's  some  pleasure  in  conquering  the  but- 
ter, and  making  it  come  whether  or  no.  3Iy  dear,'' 
'added  Priscilla,  pressing  her  sister's  hand  affectionate- 
ly as  they  walked  side  by  side,'"you'Ll  nevei-  be  low 
.ivhen  js^'oii've  got  a  dairt- ' 

"A:h,  Priscilla,"  said  Nanriy,  returning  the  prisssure 
with  a  grateful  glance  of  her  clear  eyes,  "but  it  won't 
make  up  to  Godfrey:  a  dairy's  not  so  much  to  a  man. 
A<id  it's  only  what  he  cares  for  that  ever  make.«  me 


low.     I'm  contented  with  the  blessings- wc  have,  if  he 
could.be  contented.."' 

"It  drives,  me  past  patience,"'  said  Priscilla,  impet- 
,uously,  "that  way  o' the  men — always  wanting  and' 
wanting,  and  never  ca.sy  with  what  they've  got:  they 
can't  sit  comfortable  in  t!ieir  chairs  when  they've  nei- 
ther ache  nor  pain,  but  eiiiior  they  must  stick  a  pipe 
in  their,  mouths,  to  make  'em  better  than  well,  or  else 
^ they  must  be  swallowing  something  strong,  th6ugh 
they're  forced  to  make  haste  before  the  next  meal 
comes  in.  Ijut,  joyful  be  it  spoken,  our  father  w»9 
never  that  sorts  o'  man.  And  if  it  bad  pleased  God  to 
make  you  ugly,  like  me,  so  as  the  men  woiddnt  ha' 
run  after  you,  we  might  have  kept  to  our  own  lamily, 
and  had  nothing  to  do  with  folks  as  have  got  uneasy 
blood  in  their  veins,'** 

"0  don't  say  so,,  Priscilla,"  ^aid  Nancy,  repenting 
that  she  had  called  forth  this. outburst;  "noboly  has 
any  occasion  to  find  fault  with  Godfrey.  It's  natural 
he  should  be  disappointed  at  not  having  ar|y  children; 
•every  man  Ukes  to  have  'somebody  to  work  for  and 
lay  by  for,  and  he  always  counted  so  on  making  a  fuss 
with  fhem  when  they  were  little.  There's  many  an- 
other man  'ud  hanker  more  than  he  does.  He's  the 
best  of  husbands." 

"0,  I  know/'  said  Priscilla,  smiling  sarcastically,  "I 
know  the  way  o'  wives;  thcj'  set  one  on  to*  abuse 
their  husbands,  and  then  they  turn  round  on  one  and 
praise  'em  as  if  they  wanted  to  sell  'era.  But  father  '11 
be  waiting  for  me;  we  must  turn  now." 

The  large  gig  with  the  steady  old  groy  waf*  at  the 


front  door,  and  W  r.  Lammeter  was  already  on  the  stoib'e 
steps,  passing  the  titn,e  in  recalling  to  Godfrey  what 
very  fine  points  Speckln  had  when  hi?;  master  used  to 
ride  him. 

"I  always  icould  have  a  gt)oti  liurse,  you  know," 
said  tli'e  old  genileman,  ,not  liking  that  spirited  time 
to  be  quite  effaced  froiH  the' memory  of  his  juniors. 

''Mind  you  bring  Nancy  .to  the  Warrens  before,  the 
week's  out,  Mr.  Cass,"  was  Priscilla's  parting  injunc- 
tion, as  she  took  the  reins,  and  shook  them  gently,  by 
way  of  friendly  injunction  to  Speckle. 

"I  shall  just  take  a  turn  to  the  fields  against  the 
Stone-pits,  Nancy,  and  look  at  the  draining,'  said  God- 
frey. 

"You'll  be  in  again  by  tea-time,  dear?''' 
-   "0  yes,  I.  shall  be  back  in  an  hour." 

It  was  Godfrey's  custom  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  to 
do  a  little  contemplative  farming  in  a  leisurely  walk. 
Nancy  seldom  accompanied  him,  for  the  women  of  her 
generation^ — unlei?s,  like  Priscilla,  they  took  to  out 
door  management — were  not  given  to  much  walking 
beyond  their  own  house  and  garden,  finding  sufficient 
exercise  in  domestic  duties.  So,  when  Priscilla  was 
not  with  her,  she  iigually  sat  with  Mant's  Bible  before 
her,  and  after  following  tJie  text  with  her  eyes  for  a 
little  while,  slie  would  'gradually  permit  them  to  wan- 
der, as  her  thoughts  had  already  insisted  on  wajider- 
ing. 

But  Nancy's  Sunday  thoughts  were  rarely  quite  ^n\\ 
of  keeping  with  the  devout  and  reverential  intention 
implied  l>y  the  book  spread  open  before  her.     She 


.  was  not  iiieologiciiiiy  msiiuciod  enougii  to  Ciitccni 
very  clearly  the  relation  bctwceu  the  sacred  docu- 
ments of  the  past  which  she  opened  without  method, 
aud  lipi-  cwh  obscure  simple  life;  but"  the  Spirit  of  rec- 
titude/and the  sense  of  rcspcmsibility  for  the  effect  of 
her  (Conduct  on  others,  which  were  strong  elements  in 
Nancy's  character,  liE^d- made,  it  a  habit,  with  her  to 
scrutinise  her  past  feelings  andactions  with  self  ques- 
tioning solicitude,.  Her  mind  not  being  courted  by  a 
great  variety  of  subjects,  she  filled  the  vacant  moments 
by  living  iuwardly,  again  and  Again,  through  all  her 
remembered  experience;  especially  through  the  fifteen 
veal's  of  her  married  time,  in  whicti  her  life  and  it.s 
significance  had  been  doubled.  She  recalled  the  small 
details,  the  words,  tones,  and  looks,  in  the  critical 
sce)i,es  which  had  opened  a  new  epoch  for  her,  bj  giv- 
ing her  a  deeper  insight  into  the  relations  and  trials 
of  life,  or  which  had  called  on  her  for  some  little  effort 
of  forbearaijce,  or  of  jjaiufnl  adherence'to  an  imagined, 
or  real  duty— asking  herself  continually  whether  she 
liad  been  in  any  respect  bjamablc.  This  excessive 
rumination  and  t?elf-(fuestiouiug  is  perhaps  a  morbid 
habit  inevitable  to  a  mind  of  much  moral  sensibility 
when  shutout  from  its  due  share_of  outward  activity 
and  of  practical  claims  on  its  afleaions — -inevitable  to 
a  noble-hearted,  childless  woman,  when  her  lot  is  nar- 
row. ''I  can  do  so  little-^have  I  done  it  all.  well?" 
is  the  perpetually  recurring  thought;  and  there  are  no 
voices  calling  her  'away  from  that  soliloquy,  Ho  pe- 
remptory demands  to  divert  energy  from  yaiu  regret 


.SiJ>A.^     AlAJLNEi. 


There  was  one  main  thread  of  personal  experience 
in  Nancy's  married  Hfe,  and  on  it  liung  certain  ijeep- 
]y-felt  scenes,  which  were  the  oftenest  i^vivedin  ret- 
rospect.    The  short  dialogue  with  Priseillii  in  the  gar- 
den had  determined  the  current  of  retrospect  in  that 
frequent  direction  this  particular  Sunday  afternoon. 
/J'he  first  wandering  of  hrn  thought  from   the   t<ixt, 
which  she  still  attemped  dutifully  to. follow  tvith  her 
eyes  and  silent  lips,  was   into  an  imaginary  enlarge- 
ment of  the  defence  she  had  set  up  f(tr  her  husband 
against   Priscilla's  implied   bl^me.     The   vindication 
of  the  loved  object  is  the  best  balm  aflection  can  find 
for  its  wounds: — ''A  man  must  have  so  much  on  his 
mind,''  is  the  belief  by  which  a  wife  often  supports 
a  cheerful  face  under  rough  answers  and  unfeehng 
words'.    .And  Nancy's  deepest  wounds  had  all  come 
from  the  perception  that  the  absence  of  children  from 
their  hearth  was  dwelt  on  in  her  husband's  miiid  as 
a  privation  to  which  he  could  not  reconcile  himself. 
Yet  sweet  Nancy  might  have  been  expected  to  feel- 
still  more  keenly  the  denial  of  a  hletsing  to  which  she 
had  looked  forward  with  all   the  varied  expectations 
and  preparations,  solemn  and  prettily  trivial,  which 
fill  the  mind  of  a  loving  woman  when  she  expects  to 
l)ecome  a  mother.     Was  there  not  a  drawer  filled  with, 
the  neat  work  of  her  hands,  all  unworn  and  untouch- 
ed, just  as  she -had  arranged  it  there  iburteen  years 
ago — ^just,  but  for  one  littl6  dress,  wjiich  had  been 
made  the  burial-dress  I     But  under  this  immediate 
personal  trialNancy  was  so  firmly  unmurmuring,  that 
years  ago  she  had  suddenly  renounced  the  liahit  of 


visiting  this  (l«"awor,  jest  she  should  in  (,hi5  way  I)o: 
cheiishini;  a  lonfjins  for  w!.;-  ;iot  «xivon.    'Per- 

haps  it.  was  this  vRry  .severity  towards  any  indulgence 
uf  whnt  she  {n-U\  to  be  sinlld  regret  in.  herself,  that 
inade^her  ^hrhik  Iroiri  applyiniT  Ker  own  standard  to 
her  husbjr  ;  was  very  different — it  was  nouch 

worse  for  a  man  lo  be 'disappointed  in  that  w.i-iy:  a 
wo'.iian  'eouid  always  be  salislied  with  devoting  her- 
scU'to  her  husojir.d,  but  a  man  wanted  somethinjT  that 
would  make  Uhn  look  forward  more — and  sittin:^  by 
t}ie  firrf.  was  so  iiuicti  duller  to  jiim  than'toa  woman." 
.\nd  always,  when  Nancy  rcochcd  this  point -jn  her 
meditations-^tryinfj,  with  predetermined  sympathy, 
to  see  e\t'rylhing  as  Godfrey  saw  it — there  came  a 
renewal  of  jfclf-qucstioning.  Had  she  done  everything 
in  lier.  po:wer  to  lighten  Godfrey's  privation  ?  Had 
she  realiy  been  right  in  the  resistance  which  had  cost 
her  so  nmch  ])ain  six  years  ago,  and  again  four  years 
ago — 'the  resistance  lo  her  husband's  wish  that  they 
should  adopt  a;  child  i*  Adoption  was  more  remote 
from  the  ideas  gbd  habits  of  that  time  th;in  of-  our 
own;  still  Nancy  had  her  opinion  of  it.  It  was  as 
necessary  to  h.er.  mind  to  have  an  opinion  on  all  top- 
ic?, not  exclusively  nri.sculine,  that  had  come  under 
hor  notice,  as  for  her  to  have  a  pi;ecisely  marked 
.place  lor  every  article  of  her  personal  property;  and 
her  opinions  were  always  principles  to  be  unwaver- 
ingly acted  on.  They  were  firm,  not  because  of  their 
basis,  but  because  she  held  them  with  a  tenacity  in- 
separable from  her  mental  action.  On  all  the  duties 
and  proprieties  of  life,  from  filial  biehaviour  to  the  ar- 


SLLA.S    MAi;;<EK.  -O  < 

rancrement  of  the  evening  toilette,  pretty  Nahcy  Lam- 
meter,  by  the  timcslie  was  tliree-and-twenty,  had  her 
unalterable  little  code,  and  had  formed  every  one  of 
her  habits  in  strict  accordance  with  that  code.  She 
Carrie:!  tliese  decided  judjrments  within  her  in  the 
jnost  i/nobtriisive  way;  they  rooted  themselves  in  her 
•  mind,  and  grew  there  as  quietly  as  grass.  Years  ago, 
we  know,  she  insisted  on  dressing  like  Priscilla,  be- 
cause "  it  was  right  for  sisters  to  dress  alike,"  and  be- 
caus(5  "she  would  do  w'hat  was  right  if  she  wore  a 
gown  dyed  with  cheese-colouring.''  That  w  as  a  triv- 
ial but  typical  instance  of  the  mode  in  which  Nancy'* 
life  was  regulated. 

It  was  one  of  those  rigid  principles,  and  no  petty 
egoistic  feeling,  which  had  been  the  ground  of  Nancy's  , 
difficult  resistance  to  lier  husbaiid's  wish.  To  adopt 
a  child,  because  children  of  your  own  had  b,een  denied 
vou,  was  to  try  and  choose  your  lot  in  spite  of  Pravi- 
derice;  and  the  adopted  child,  she  was  convinced, 
would  never  turn  out  well,  and  would  be  a  curse  to 
those  who  had  wilfully  and  rebelliously  sought  that 
which  it  was  clear  that,  for  soine  high  reason,  they 
were  better  without.  When  you  saw  a  thing  w^as  not 
meant  to  be,  said  Nancy,,  it  was  a  bounden  duty  to 
leave  off  so  much  as  wishing  for  it.  And  so  far,  per- 1 
haps,  the  wisest  of  men. could  scarcely  make  more  than 
a  verbal  improvement  in  her  principle.  But  the  con- 
ditions under  which  she  held  it  apparent  that  a  thing 
was  not  meant  to  be,  depended  on  a  more  peculiar 
mode  of  thinking.  She  would  have  given  up  making 
a  purchase  at  a  particular  place  if,  on  three  successive 


238'  '  SILAi    MAitNEK. 

times,  rain,  or.sgaie  other  cause  of  heaven's  sending, 
had  formed  an  obstacle;  and  she  would  have  anHici- 
pated  a  broken  linYb  or  other  heavy  misfortune  to  any 
one  who  persisted  in  spite  of  such  indications. 

"But  why  should  you'  think  the  child  woiild  turn, 
out  ill?"  said  Godfrey,  in  his  remonstrances.  "Shc^ 
has  thriven  as  well  as  child  can  do  with  the  weaver; 
and  he  adopted  her.  There  isn't  such  a  pretty  girl 
anywhere  else  in  the  parish,  or  one  fitter  for  the  sta- 
tion we  could  give  her.  Where  cam  be  the  likelihood 
of  her  being  a  curse  to  anybody?" 

"Yes,  my  dear  Godfrey,"  said  Nancy,  who  was  sit- 
ting with  her  hands  .tightly  clasped  together,  with 
yearning,  regretful  affection  in  her  eyes.  "The  child 
may  not  turn  out  ill  with  the  weaver.  But,  then,  he 
didn't  'go  to  seek  her,  as  we  should  be  doing.  It  will 
be  wrong:  I  feel  sure  it  will.  Don't  you  remember 
what  that  lady  we  met  at  the  Royston  Baths  told  us 
abo^t  the  child  her  sister  adopted?  That  was  the 
only  adopting  I  ever,  beard  of;.aud  the  child  was 
transported  w  hen  it  was  twenty-three.  Dear  Godfrey 
— don't  ask  me  to  do  what  I  know  is  wrong:  I  should 
never  be  happy  again.  I  know  it's  very  hard  for  you 
— it's  easier  for  me — but  it's  the  will  of  Providence.'* 
8  .  It  might  seem  singular  that  Nancy — with  her  relig- 
ious theory  pieced  together  out  of  narrow  social  tra- 
ditions, fragments  of  church,  doctrine  imperfectly  un- 
derstood, and  girlish  reasonings  on  her  small  experi- 
ence— should  have  arrived  by  herself  at  a  way  of 
thinking  so  nearly  akin,  to  that  of  many  devout  peo- 
ple, whoB.e  beliefs  are  held  in  the  shape  of  a  system 


iil.AS.  MAUNEU. 


239 


quite  remote  iVom  tier  knowledge — singular,  if  we  did 
not  know  that  hunian  belici>,  like  all  other  natural 
.rowths,  elude  the  barriers  of  system, 

^Godfr^y  had  from  the  first  specified  Eppie,  then 
ibout  twelve  years  old,  as  a  child  suitable  for  them 
coadopt.     It  had  never  occurred*  to  hiia  that  Silas 
would   rather  part  with  his  life   than   with   Eppie.  . 
Surely  the  weaver  would  wish  the  best  to  t^e  child 
he  had  taken  so  much  trouble  with,  and  would  be 
glad    thnt  such  good  fortune  should  happen  to  her: 
she  would  always  be  very   jirateful  to  him,  and  he 
would  be  well  provided  for  to  the  end  of  his  life — 
provided  for  as. the  excellent  part  he  had  done  by  the 
hild  deserved.     Was  it  not  an  appropriate  thing  for 
people  in  a  higher  station  to  take  a  chan>;e  off  the 
hands  of  a  nian-in  a  lower/     It  seemed  an  eminently 
appropriate  thing  to  Godfrey,  for  reasons  that  were 
known  only  to  himself;  and  by  a  common  fallacy,  he  . 
imagined  the  meastire  would  be  easy  because  he  had 
.private  motives  for  desirihg  it.     This  was  rather  a 
coarse  mode  of  estimating  Silas's  relation  to  Eppie; 
but  we  must  remember  that  many  of  the  impressions 
which  Godfrey  M^as  likely  to  gather  concerning  the 
labouring  people  around  Iiim  would  favour  the  idea 
that  drop  affections  can  hardly  go  along  with  callous 
palms  and  scant  means;  and  he  had  ijot  had  the  op- 
portunity, even  if  he  had  had  the  power,  of  entering, 
intimately  into  all  that  was  exceptional  in  the  weav- 
er's experience.     It  was 'only  the  want  of  adequate 
•    knowledge  that  could  have  made  it  possible  for  God- 
frey deliberatc^v  to  entertain  an  unfeeling  project: 


240  aiLAS   MAftMi:i:. 

his  natural  kindness  had  outlived  that  blighting  time 
of  cruel  wishes,  and  Nancy's  praise  of  himas  a  hus- 
band was  not  founded  entirely  on  z  wilful  iilusioli. 

"I  was  right,"  «he  said  to  herself,  when  she  had  re- 
called all  their  scenes  of  discussion,  "I  feel  I  was 
right  to  saj  him  nay.  though  it  hurt  me  more  than 
anything;  but  how  good  Godfrey  has  been  about  it! 
Many  men  w;ould  have  been  very  angry  with  me.  for 
standing  out  against  their  wishes;  and  they  might 
have  thrown  out  that  they'd  had  ill  luck  in  marrying 
me;  but  Godfrey  has  never  been  the  man  to  say  me 
an  unkind  word.  It's  only  what  he  can't  hide — ct- 
erything  seems  so  blank  to  liim,  I  know;  and  the  land 
— what  a  difference  it  'ud  make  to  him,  v^hen  he  goes 
to  see  after  things,  if  he'd  children  growing  up  that  he 
wns  doing  it  all  for!  But  I  w6n't  murmur;  and  per- 
haps if  he'd  married  a  woman  who'd  have  had  chil- 
dren, she'd  have  vexed  him  in  other  ways." 

This  possibility  was  Nancy's  chief  comfort;  and  to 
give  it  greater  strength,  she  laboured  to  make  it  impos- 
sible that  any  other  wife  should  have  had  more  per- 
fect tenderness.  She  had  hecu.  forced  to  vex  him  by 
that  one  denial.  Godfrey .  was  not  insensible  to  that 
loving  effort,  and  did  Nancy  no  injustice  as  to  the 
motives  of  her  obstinacy.  It  was  impossible  to  have 
lived  with  her  fifteen  years  and  not  be  aware  that  an 
uuselhsh  clinging  to  the  right,  and  a  sincerity  clear  as 
the  flower-born  dew,  were  her  main  characteristics; 
indeed,  Godfrey  felt  thi*  so  strongly,  that  his  own 
more  wavering  nature,  too  averse  to  facing  difficulty 
to  be  unvaryingly  simple  and  truthful,  was  kept  in  a 


certain  awe  of  this  gentle  wife,  who  watched  his  looks 
with  a  yearning  to  obey  them.  It  seemed  to  him  im- 
possible that  he  should  ever  confess  to  her  the  truth 
about  Eppie;  she  would  never  recover^  from  the  re- 
pulsion the  stor^  of  his  earlier  marriage  would  create, 
told  to  her  now,  after  that  long  concealment.  And 
the  child,  too,  he  thought,  must  become  an  object  of 
repulsion:  the  very  sight  of  her  would  be  painful. 
The  shock  to  Nancy's  mingled  pride  and  ignorance 
of  the  world's  evil  might  even  be  too-  much  for  her 
delicate  frame.  Since  he  had  married  her  with  that 
secret  on  his  heart,  he  must  keep  it  there  to  the  last. 
Whatever  else  he  did,  he  could  not  make  an  irrepara- 
ble breach  between  himself  and  this  long-loved  wife. 
Meanwhile,  why  could  he  not  make  up  his  mind  to 
the  absence  of  children  from  a  hearth  brightened  by 
such  a  wife?  Why  did  his  mind  fly  uneasily  to  that 
void,  as  if  it  were  the  sole  reason  why  life  was  not 
thoroughly  joyous  to  him  ?  I  suppose  that  is  the  way 
with  all  men  and  women  who  reach  middle  age  with- 
out the  clear  perception  that  life  never  can  be  thor- 
oughly joyous;  under  the  vague  duhiess  of  the  grey 
hours,  dissatisfaction  seeks  a  definite  object,  and  finds 
it  in  the  privation  of  an  untried  good.  Dissatisfaction, 
seated  musingly  on  a  childless  hearth,  thinks  with 
envy  of  the  father  wiiose  return  is  greeted  by  young 
voices — seated  at  the  meal  where  the  little  heads  rise 
one  above  another  like  nursery  plants,  it  sees  a  black 
care  hovering  behind  every  one  of  thoin,  and  thinks 
the  impulses  by  which  men  abandon  freedom,  and 
seek  for  ties,  are  surely  nothing  but  a  brief  mad nees. 

•If 


242  SILAS    MARNER. 

Ill  Godfrey's  case  there  were  further  reasons  why  his 
thoughts  should  bo  continually  solicited  by  this  one 
point  in  his  lot:  liis  conscience,  never  thoroughly  easy 
about  Eppic,  now  gave  his  childless  home  the  aspect 
of  a  retribution;  and  as  the  tiino  passed  on,  under 
Nancy's  refusal  to  adopt  her,  any. retrieval  of  his  er- 
ror became  more  and  more  difficult. 

On  this  Sunday  afternoon  it  was  already  four  years, 
since  tliere  had  been  any  allusion  to  the  subject  be- 
tween them,  and  Nancy  supposed  that  it  was  for  ever 
buried. 

"I  wonder  if  he'll  mind  it  less  or  more  as  he  gets 
older,''  she  thought;  "I'rn  afraid  more.  Aged  people 
feel  the  miss  of  children;  what  would  father  do  with- 
out Priscilla?  And  if  I  die,  Godfrey  will  be  very 
lonely — not  holding  together  with  his  brothers  much. 
But  I  won't  be  over  anxious,  and  trying  to  make  things 
out  beforehand:  I  must  do  my  best  for  the  present." 

With  that  last  thought  Nancy  roused  herself  from 
her  reverie,  and  turned  her  eyes  again  towards  the 
forsaken  page.  It  had  been  forsaken  longer  than  she 
imagined,  for  she  was  presently  surprised  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  servant  with  the  tea-things.  It  was, 
in  fact,  a  little  before  the  usual  time  for  tea;  but  Jane 
had  her  reasons. 

*  "Is  your  master  come  into  the  yard,  Jane?'' 

"No  'm,  he  isn't,"'  said  Jane,  with  a  slight  empha- 
sis, of  which,  however,  her  mistress  took  no  notice. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you've  seen  'em,  'm,''  coii- 
tinued  Jane,  after  a  pause,  "but  there's  folks  making 
haste  all  one  way,  afore  the  front  window.     I  doubt 


SILAS    MAllNEK.  243 

something's  happened.  There's  niver  a  man  to  be 
seen  i'  the  yarfl,  else  I'd  send  and  see.  I've  been  up 
into  the  top  attic,  but  there's  no- seeing  anything  for 
■rees.     I  hope  nobody's  hurt,  that's  all." 

"O  no,  I  daresay  there's  nothing  much  the  matter,'' 
3faid  Nancy.  "It's  perhaps  Mr.  Snell's  bull  got  out 
again  as  he  did  before.'' 

"I  wish  he  mayn't  gore  anybody,  then,  that's  all," 
said  June,  not  altogether  despising  a  hypothesis  which 
covered  a  few  imaginary  calamities. 

"That  girl  is  always  terrifying  me,"  thought  Nan- 
cy; "I  wish  Godfrey  would  come  in." 

She  went  to  the  front  window  and  looked  as  far  as 
she  could  see  along  the  road,  with  an  uneasiness  which 
she  felt  to  be  childish,  fof  there  were  now  no  such 
signs  df  excitement  as  Jane  had  spoken  of,  and  God- 
frey would  not  be  likely  to  return  by  the  village  road, 
but  by  the  fields.  She  Viontinued  to  ^nd,  however, 
looking  at' the  placid  churchyard  with  the  long  shad- 
ows of  th^  gravestones  across  the  bright  green  hillocks, 
and  at  the  glowing  autumn  colours  of  the  Rectory 
trees  beyond.  Before  such  calm  external  beauty  the 
presence  of  a  vague  fear  is  more  distinctly  felt — like 
a  raven  flapping  its  slow  wing  across  the  sunny  air. 
Nancy  wished  more  and  more  that  Godfrey  would 
come  in. 


244  81LAS    aCARIfHR. 


i  ' 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

Some  one  opened  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  Nancy  felt  that  it  was  her  husband.  She 
turned  from  the  window  with  gladness  in  her  eyes, 
for  the  wife's  chief  dread  was  stilled. 

"Dear,  I'm  so  thankful  you're  come,"'  she  said,  go- 
ing towards  him.     "I  began  to  get. ..." 

She  paused  abruptly,  for  Godfrey  was  laying  down 
his  hat  with  trembling  hands,  and  turned  towards  her 
with  a  pale  face  and  a  strange  unansvvering  glance,  as 
if  he  saw  her  indeed,  but  saw  her  as  part  of  a  scene 
invisible  to  herself  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
not  daring  to^peak  again;  but  he  left  the  t©uch  un- 
noticed, and  threw  himself  into  his  chair. 

Jane  was  already  at  the  door  with  the  hjssing  urn. 
"Tell  her  to  keep  away,  will  you?"  said  Godfrey; 
and  when  the  door  was  closed  again  he  exerted  him- 
self to  spea';  more  distinctly. 

"Sit  down,  Nancy — there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a 
chair  opposite  him.  "I  came  back  as  soon  as  I  could, 
to  hinder  anybody's  telling  you  but  me.  Ive  had  a 
great  shock — but  I  care  most  about  the  shock  it'll  be 
to  you." 

"It  isn't  father  and  Priscillal"  said  Nancy,  with 
quivering  lips,  clasping  her  hands  together  tightly  on' 
ber  lap. 


"No,  it's  nobody  living/'  said  Godfrey,  unequal  to 
the  considerate  skill  with  which  he  could  have  wished' 
to  make  his  revelation.     "It's  Dunstan — my  brother 
Dunstan,  that  we  lost  sight   of  sixteen    years  ago. 
We've  found  him — found  his  body — his  skeleton." 

The  deep  dread   Godffey's  look  had  created    on' 
Nancy  made  her  feel  these  words  a  relief.     She  sat 
in  comparative  calmness  to  hear  what  else  be  had  to 
tell.     He  went  on: 

"The  Stone-pit  has  gone  dry  suddenly — from  th© 
draining,  I  suppose;  and  there  he  lies — has  lain  for 
sixteen  years,  wedged  between  two  great  stones. 
There's  his  watch  and  seals,  and  there's  my  gold-han- 
dled hunting-whip,  with  my  name  on:  he  took  it 
away,  without  my  knowing,  the  day  he  went  hunting 
on  Wildfire,  the  last  time  he  was  seen." 

Godfrey  paused;  it  was  not  so  easy  to  say  what 
came  next.  "Do  you  think  he  drowned  himself!" 
said  Nancy,  almost  wondering  that  her  husband  should 
be  so  deeply  shaken  by  what  had  happened  all  those 
years  ago  to  an  unloved  brother,  of  whom  worse 
things  had  been  augured. 

"No,  he  fell  in,"  said  Godfrey,  in  a  low  but  distinct 
voice,  as  if  he  felt  some  deep  meaning  in  the  fact. 
Presently  he  added:  "Dunstan  was  the  man  that 
robbed  Silas  Marner." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Nancy's  face  and  ncek  at  this 
surprise  and  shame,  for  she  had  been  bred  up  to  re- 
gard even  a  distant  kinship  with  crime  as  a  dishonour. 

"0  Godfrey!"  she  said,  with  compassion  in  her 
tone,  for  »he  had  iramediat/elv  reflected  that  the  di»- 


246  *  SILAS    MARNER. 

honour  must  be  felt  still  more  keenly  b}'  her  husband. 

"There  was  the  money  in  the  pit,"  he  continued — 
"all  the  weaver's  money.  Pj  very  thing's  being  gath- 
ered up,  and  they're  taking  the  skeleton  to  the  l^ain- 
bow.  But  J  came  back  to  tell  you:  there  was  no  hin- 
dering it;  you  must  know.'" 

He  was  silent,  looking  on  the  ground  for  two  long 
minutes.  Nancy  would  have  said  some  words  of  com- 
fort under  this  disgrace,  but  she  refrained,  from  an  in- 
stinctive sense  that  there  was  something  Ijehind — that 
Godfrey  had  something  else  to  tell  her.  Presently  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  her  lace,  and  kept  them  fixed  on  her, 
as  he  said — 

"Everything  comes  to  light,  Nancy,  sooner  or  later. 
When  God  Almighty  wills  it,  our  secrets  are  found 
out.  I've  lived  with  a  secret  on  my  mind,  but*  I'll 
keep  it  from  you  no  longer.  I  wouldn't  have  you 
know  it  by  somebody  else,  and  not  by  me — I  wouldn't 
have  you  find  it  out  after  I'm  dead.  I'll  tell  you 
now.  Its  been  'I  will'  and  'I  wont'  with  me  allrtiy 
life — I'll  make  sure  of  myself  now." 

Nancy's  utmost  dread  had  returned.  The  eyes  of 
the  husband  and  wife  met  with  awe  in  them,  as  at  a 
crisis  which  suspended  affection. 

"jNancy,"'  said  Godfrey,  slowly,  "when  I  married 
you,  I  hid  something  from  you — something  I  ought  to 
have  told  you.  That  woman  Marner  found  dead  in 
the  snow — Eppie's  mother — that  wretched  woman — 
was  my  wife:  Eppie  is  my  child." 

He  paused,  dreading  the  effect  of  his  confession. 
But  Nancy  sat  quite  still,  only  that  her  eyes  dropped 


SILA.S     MAKNEK.*  247 

and  ceased  to  meet  his.     8he  was  pale  and  quiet  as  a 
meditative  statue,  clasping  her  hands  on  her  lap. 

"You'll  never  think  the  same  of  me  again,"  said 
Godfrey,  after  a  little  v.-hile,  with  some  tremor  in  his 
voice. 

She  was  silent. 
•  "I   oughtn't  to  have   left   the   child    unowned:  I 
onghln't  to  have  kept  it  from  you.     But  I  couldn't 
bear  to  give  you   up,  Xancy.     I  was  led  away  into 
marrying  her — I  suffered  for  it."' 

Still  Nancy  was  silent,  looking  down;  and  he  al- 
most expected  that  she  would  presently  get  up  and 
say  she  would  go  to  her  father's.  How  could  she 
have  any  mercy  for  faults  that  must  seem  so  black  to 
her,  with  her  simple,  severe  notions  l 

But  at  last  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his  again  and 
spoke.  There  was  no  indignation  in  lier  voice — only 
deep  regret. 

"Godfrey,  if  you  had  but  told  me  this"  six  years 
ago,  we  could  have  done  some  of  our  duty  by  the 
child.  Do  you  think  I'd  have  refused  to  take  her  in, 
if  I'd  known  she  was  yours?'' 

At  that  moment  Godfrey  felt  all  the  bitterness  of 
an  error  that  was  not  simply  futile,  but  had  defeated 
its  own  end.  He  had  not  measured  this  wife  with 
whom  he  had  lived  so  long.  But  she>  spoke  again, 
with  more  agitation. 

"And~0,  Godfrey — if  we'd  had  her  from  the  first, 
if  you'd  taken  to  her  as  you  ought,  she'd  have  loved 
me  for  her  mother,  and  you'd  have  been  happier  with 


248  .-iLAS     MAKNLU. 

mdH  I  could  ]:)ettpr  have  bore  my  little  baby  dying, 
and  aur  life  might  liave  been  more  like  what  we  used 
to  think  it  'ud  be.' 

The  fears  f(ill,  and  X.ipcy  ceased  to  speak. 

''But  yoii  would.'nt  iiave  married  me  then,  Nancy, 
^  if  I'd  told  you,"  said  Godfrey,  urged,  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  self-reproach,  to  prove  to  himself  that  his' con- 
duct liad  not  been  utter  folly.  "You  may  think  you 
would  now, 'but  you  wouldn't  then.  With  your  pride 
and  your  father's,  you'd  have  hated  liaving  anything 
TO  do  with  me  after  the  talk  thered  have  been." 

"1  can't  say  whnt  I  should  have  done  about  that, 
Godfrey.  I  should  never  have  married  anybody  else. 
But  I  wasn't  worth  doing  wrong  for — nothing  is  in 
this  world.  Nothing  is  so  good  as  it  seems  before- 
hand— not  even  our  marrying  wasn't,  you  see."  There 
wai  a  faint  sad  smile  on  Nancy's  face  ae  she  said  the 
last  words. 

"I'm  a  worse  man  than  you  thought  I  was,  Nancy," 
said  Godfrey,  rather  tremulously.  "Can  you  forgive 
me  ever?" 

"The  wrong  to  me  is  but  little,  Godfrey:  youVe 
made  it  up  to  me — you've  been  good  to  me  for  fifteen 
years.  It's  another  you  did  the  wrong  to;  and  I 
doubt  it  can  never  be  made  up  for." 

"But  we  can  take  Eppie  now,"  said  Godfrey.  "I 
won't  mind  the  world  knowing  at  last.  I'll  be  plain 
and  open  for  the  rest  o*  my  life.'' 

"It'll  be  different  coming  to  us,  now  she's  grown 
up,"  said  Nancy,  sliaking  her  head  sadly.     "But  it's 


.SU.AS     MAKXKRI  245:) 

your  duty  to  acknowleclgc  her  and  provide  for  her; 
fiiid  I'll  do  my  part  by  her,  and  pray  to  God  Almighty 
to  make  her  lore  m<*," 

"Then  we'll  go  together  (o  Silas  Marncr"sthis  very 
night,  as  soon  as  everything's  quiet  at  thejitone-pits." 


250  SILAS     MAUNEli. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  Ep- 
pie  and  Silas  were  seated  alone  in  the  cottage.  After 
the  gret%  excitement  the  weaver  had  undergone  from 
the  events  of  the  afternoon,  he  had  felt  a  longing  for 
this  quietude,  and  had  even  begged  Mrs.  Winthrop 
and  Aaron,  who  had  naturally  lingered  behind  every 
one  else,  to  leave  him  alone  with  his  child.  The  ex- 
citement had  not  passed  away :  it  had  only  reached 
that  stage  when  the  keenness  of  the  susceptibiHty 
makes* external  stimulus  intolerable — when  there  is 
no  sense  of  weariness,  but  rather  an  intensity  of  in- 
ward life,  under  which  sleep  is  an  impossibility.  Any 
one  who  has  watched  such  moments  in  other  men  re- 
members the  brightness  of  the  eyes  and  the  strange 
definiteness  that  comes  over  coarse  features  from  that 
transient  influence.  It  is  as  if  a  new  fineness  of  ear 
for  all  spiritual  voices  had  sent  wonder-working  vibra- 
tions through  the  heavy  mortal  frame — as  if  "beauty 
born  of  murmuring  sound''  had  passed  into  thcLface 
of  the  listener. 

Silas's  face  showed  that  sort  of  transfiguration,  as 
he  sat  in  his  arm-chair  and  looked  at  Eppie.  She  had 
drawn  her  own  chair  towards  his  knees,  and  leaned 
forward,  holding  both  his  hands,  while  she  looked  up 
at  him.     On  the  table  near  them,  lit  by  a  candle,  lay 


SILAS '  JfAR.VKR.  251 

tlie  recovered  go-Ll — the  old  long-loved  gold,  ranged 
in  orderly  iieaps,  as  Silas  used  to  range  it  in  tjie  days 
it  was  his  only  joy.  lie  had  been  telling  her  how  he 
used  to  count  it  every  niglit,  and  how  his  soul  .was 
utterly  desolate  till  she  wn^s  sent  to  him. 

"At  first,  I'd  a  sort  o'  ieeling  come  acfoss  rae  now 
and  then, "  he  was  saying  in  a  subdued  tone,  "as  if" 
you  might  be  changed  into  the  gold  again;  for  some- 
times, turn  my  head  which  way  I  would,  I  seemed  to 
see  the  gold;  and  I  thought  I  should  be  glad  if  I 
could  feel  it,  and  find  it  was  come  back..  But  that 
didn't  last  long.  After  a  bit,  I  should  have  thought 
it  was  a  curse  come  again,  if  it  had  drove  you  from 
me,  for  I'd  got  to  feel  the  need  o'  your  looks  and  your 
voice  and  the  touch  o'  your  little  fingers.  You  didn't 
know  then,  Eppie,  when  you  weVe  such  a  little  un — ' 
you  didn't  know  what  your  old  father  Silas  felt  for 
you." 
'  "But  I  know  now,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "If  it 
hadn't  been  for  you,  they'd  have  taken  me  to  the  work- 
house, and  there'd  have  been  nobody  to  love  me." 

"Eh,  my  precious  child,  the  blessing  was  mine. 
If  3-ou  hadn't  been  sent  to  save  me,  I  should  ha'  gone 
to  'the  grave  in  my  misery.  The  money  was  taken 
away  from  me  in  time ;  and  jou  see  it's  been  kept — 
kept  till  it  was  wanted  for  you.  It's  wonderful — our 
life  is  wonderful." 

■  Silas  sat  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  the 
money.  "It  takes  no  hold  of  me  now,"  he  said,  pon- 
deringly— ^"the  money  doesn't.  I  wonder  if  it  ever 
could  again — I  doubt  it  might,  if  I  lost  yon,  Eppie, 


L^r>2  VILA'S     MARXLU. 

I  inifrht  come  lo  think  I  was  forsaken  again,  and  lose 
tiie  feehn<j  that  God  was  good  to  me." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knocking  at  the  door; 
and  Eppie  waa  obliged  lo  rise  without  answering  Si- 
las. Beauiifui  she  looked,  with  the  tenderness  ofgath- 
cring  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  a  sh^ht  flush  on  her 
cheeks,  as  she  stepped  to  open  the  door.  The  flush 
deepened  when  she  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass. 
She  made  her  little  rustic  curtsy,  and  hr,ld  the  door 
wide  for  them  to  enter. 

'*  We're  disturbing  you  very  late,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Cass,  taking  Eppie's  hand,  and  looking  in  her 
face"^  with  an  expression  of  anxious  interest  and  ad- 
miration.    Nancy  herself  was  pale  and  tremulous. 

Eppie,  after  placing  chairs  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass, 
went  to  stand  against  Silas,  opposite  to  them. 

"  Well,  Marner,"said  Godfrey,  trying  to  speak  with 
perfect  firmness,  "it's  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  see 
you  with  your  money  again,  that  you've  been  deprived 
of  so  many  years.  It  was  one  of  my  family  did' you 
the  wrong — the  moire  grief  to  me — and  I  feel  bound 
to  make  up  to  you  for  it  in  every  way.  Whatever 
I  can  do  for  you  will  be  nothing  but  paying  a  debt, 
even  if  I  looked  no  farther  than  the  robbery.  But 
there  are  other  things  I'm  beholden,  shall  be  beholden 
to  you  for,  Marner." 

Godfrey ^checked  himself.  It  had  been  agreed  be- 
tween him  and  his  wife  that  the  subject  of  his  father- 
hood should  be  approached  very  carefully,  and  that, 
if  possible,  the  disclosure  should  be  reserved  for  the 
future,  so  that  it  might  b«  made  to  Eppie  graxlually. 


Nancy  had  urged  this,  because  she  felt  strongly  the 
painful  light  ja  which  Eppio  must  inevitable  sec  the 
relation  Detw<^cn  her  father  and  mothnr. 

Silas,  always  ill  at  e»fo  when  he  was  being  spoken 
to*  by  "betters,''' such  as  Mr.  Cass — ^tall,  powerful, 
florid  men,  sse[i  chiefly  on  horseback — answered  with 
some  constraint — 

"Sir,  Fvc  a  deal  lo  tlKink  you  i'or  a'ready.  As  for 
the  robbery,  I  count  it  no  loss  to  me.  And  if  I  did, 
you  couldn't  help  it:  you  aren't  answerable  for  it." 

"You  may  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Marner,  but  I 
never  can;  and  I  hope  tou'II  let  mo  act  according  to 
my  own  feeling  oftvhat's  just.  I  know  you're  easily 
contented:  you're  been  a  hard-working  man  all  your 
life.-' 

"Yes,  sir,  yes,*'  said  Marner,  meditatively.  "I 
should  ha'  been  bad  off  without  my  work :  it  was  what. 
I  held  by  when   everything  else  was  gone  from  me. ' 

"Ah,"  said  Godfrey,  applying  Marncrs  words  sim- 
ply to  his  bodily  wants,  "it  was  a  good  trade  for  you 
in  this  countryN,  because  there's  been  a  great  deal  of 
linen-weaving  to  be  done.  But  you're  getting  rather 
past  such  close  work,  Marner;  it's  time  you  laid  by 
and  had  some  rest.  You  look  a  good  deal  pulled 
down,  though  you're  not  an  old  man,  are  you?" 

"  Fifty-five,  as  near  as  I  can  say,  sir,"  said  Silas. 

"O,  why,  you  may  live  thirty  years  longer — look 
at  old  Macey !  And  that  money  on  the  table,  after 
all,  is  but  little.  It  won't  gofar  either  way — wliether 
it's  put  out  to  interest,  or  you  were  to  live  on  it  as 
k>ng  at  it  would  last :  it  wouldn't  &o  far  'if  vou'd  no- 


254  -SILAb     MAKNEK. 

body  to  keep  but  y»jurseir,  and  you've  Itad  two  to  keep 
for  a  good  many  years  now/'  , 

"Ell,  sir,"  said  Silas,  unaffected  by  anything  Grod- 
frey  way  sayings  "I'm  in  no  fear  o'  want.  We  shall  do 
very  well — Eppie  and  me'll  do  well  enough.  There's 
few  working-folks  have  got  so  much  laid  by  as  that. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  to  gentlefolks,  but  I  look  upon 
it  as  a  deal — almost  too  much.  And  as  for  us,  it's  lit- 
tle we  want." 

"Only  tlie  garden,  father,"  said  Eppie,  blushing  up 
lo  the  ears  the  moment  after. 

"You  love  a  garden,  do  you,  ray. dear?"  said  Nancy, 
thinking  that^is  turn  in  the  point  of  view  might  help 
her  husband.  "We  should  agree  in  that:  I  give  a 
deal  of  time  to  the  garden." 

"Ah,  there's  plenty  of  gardening  at  the  Red  House," 
said  Godfrey,  surprised  at  the  difficulty  he  found  in 
approaching  a  proposition  which  had  seemed  so  easy 
to  him  in  the  distance.  "YouVe  done  a  good  part 
by  Eppie,  Marner,  for  sixteen  years.  It  'ud  be  a  great 
comfort  to  you  to  see  her  well  provided  for,  wouldn't 
it?  She  looks  blooming  and  healthy,  but  not  fit  for 
any  hardships:  she  doesn't  look  like  a  strapping  girl 
come  of  working  parents.  You'd  Hke  to  see  her  taken 
care  of  by  those  who  can  leave  her  well  off,  and  make 
a  lady  of  her;  she's  more  fit  for  it  than  for  a  rough 
life,  such  as  she  might  come  to  have  in  a  few  years' 
time." 

A  slight  Hush  came  over  Earner's  face,  and  disap- 
peared, like  a  passing  gleam.  Eppie  was  simply  won- 
dering Mr.  Cass  should  talk  so  about  things  that  seem- 


^ILAS    JIAJ.'NKli.  255 

eel  to  liave  nothing  to  do  with  reality;  but  Silas  was 
hurt  and  uneasy. 

"I  don't  take  your  meaning,  sir,"  he  answered,  not 
having  words  at  command  to  express  the  .mingled 
feelings  with  which  he  had  heard  Mr.  Cass's  words. 

"Well,  my  meaning  is  this,  Marner,''''said  Godfrey, 
determined  to  come  to  the  point.  "Mrs.  Cass  and  I, 
you  know,  have  no  children — nobody  to  benefit  by 
our  good  home  and  everything  else  we  have — more 
than  enough  for  ourselves.  And  we  should  like  to 
have  somebody  in  the  place  of  a  daugliter  to  us — ^we 
should  like  to  have  Eppie,  and  treat  her  in  every  way 
as  our  own  child.  It  woujd  be  a  great  comfort  to  you 
in  your  old  age,  I  hope,  to  see  her  fortune  made  in 
that  way,  after  you  have  been  at  the  trouble  of  brino-- 
ing  her  up  so  well.  And  it's  right  you  should  have 
every  reward  for  that.  And  Eppie,  I'm  sure,  will  al- 
ways love  you  and  bo  grateful  to  you:  she'd  come 
and  see  you  very  often,  and  vye  should  all  be  on  the 
look-out  to  do  everything  we  conld  tow^ards  makinf> 
you  comfortable." 

A  plain  man  like  Godfrey  Cass,  speakipg  under 
some  embarrassment,  necessarily  blunders  on  words 
that  are  coarser  than  his  intentions,  and  that  are  like- 
ly to  fall  gratingly  on  susceptible  feelings.  While  he 
had  been  speaking,  Eppie  had  quietly  passed  her  arm 
behind  Silas's  head,  and  let  her  hand  rest  against  it 
caressingly :  she  felt  him  trembling  violently.     He  was 

silent  for  some  moments  when  Mr.  Cass  had  ended 

powerless  under  the  conflict  of  emotions,  all  alike  pain- 
ful.    Eppie's  heart  was  swelling  at  the  sen^e  that  her 


father  was  in  distress;  aud  she  was  just  going  to  lean 
down  and  speak  to  him,  when  one  struggling  dread 
at  last  gained  the  mastery  over  every  other  in  Silas, 
and  he  said,  faintly — 

"Eppic,  my  child,  speak.  I  won't  stand  in  your 
way.     Thank  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass." 

Eppie  took  her  hand  from  her  father's  head,  and 
came  forward  a  step.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  but 
not  with  shyness  this  time:  the  sense  that  her  father 
was  in  doubt  and  suftering  banished  that  sort  of  self- 
consciousness.  She  dropped  a  low  curtsy,  first  to  Mrs. 
Cass  and  then  to  Mr.  Cass-,  and  said — 

"Thank  you,  maam — thank  you,  sir.  But  I  can't 
leave  my  father,  nor  own  anybody  nearer  than  him. 
And  I  don't  want  to  be  a  lady — thank  you  all  the 
game'' — (here  Eppie  dropped  another  curtsy),  "I 
couldn't  give  up  the  folks  I've  been  used  to." 

Eppie's  hp  began  to  tremble  a  little  at  the  last 
words.  She  retreated  to  her  father's  chair  again,  and 
held  him  round  the  neck;  while  Silas,  with  a  sub- 
dued sob,  put  up  his  hand  to  grasp  hers. 

The  tears  were  in  Nancy's  eyes,  but  her  sympathy 
with  Eppie  was,  naturally,  divided  with  distress  on 
her  husband's  account.  She  dared  not  speak,  won- 
dering what  was  going  on  in  her  husband's  mind. 

Godfrey  felt  an  irritation  inevitable  to  almost  all  of 
us  when  we  encounter  an  unexpected  obstacle.  He 
had  been  full  of  his  own  penitence,  and  resolution  to 
retrieve  his  error  as  far  as  the  time  was  left  to  him; 
he  w^as  possessed  with  all-important  feeliqgs,  that 
were  to  lend  to  a  predetermined   course  of  action 


.SILAS    MAKNER.  257 

which  he  had  fixed  on  as  the  right,  and  he  was  not 
prepared  to  enter  with  lively  appreciation  into  other 
people's  feelings,  counteracting  his  virtuous  resolves. 
The  agitation  with  which  he  spoke  again  was  not 
quite  unmixed  with  aftger. 

"But  I  have  a  claim  on  you,  Eppie— rthc  strongest 
of  all  claims.  It  is  my  duty,  Marner,  to  own  Eppie 
as  my  child,  and  provide  for  her.  She  is  my  own 
child — her  mother  was  my  wife.  I  have  a  natural 
claim  on  her  that  must  stand  before  every  other." 

Eppie  had  given  a  violent  start,  and  turned  quite 
pale.  Silas,  on  the  contrary,  who  had  been  relieved, 
by  Eppie's  answer,  from  the  dread  lest  his  mind.should 
be  in  oppoiition  to  hers,  felt  the  spirit  of  resistance  in 
him  set  free,  and  not  without  a  touch  of  parental 
fierceness.  "Then,  sir,"  he  answered,  with  an  accent 
of  bitterness  that  had  been  silent  in  him  since  the 
memorable  day  when  his  youthful  hope  had  perished 
— "tlien,  sir,  why  didn't  you  say  so  sixteen  year  ago^ 
and  claim  her  before  I'd  come  to  love  her,  i'stead  o 
coming.,to  take  her  from  me  now,  when  you  might  as 
well  take  the  heart  out  o'  my  body?  God  gave  her 
to  me  because  you  turned  your  back  upon  her,  and 
He  looks  upon  her  as  inine;  you've  no  riglit  to  her! 
When  a  man  turns  a  blessing  from  his  door,  it  falls  to 
them  as  take  it  in." 

"I  know  that,  Marner.  I  was  wrong.  I've  re- 
pented of  my  conduct  in  that  matter."  said  Godfrey, 
who  could  not  help  feeling  the  edge  of  Silas's  words. 

^'Tm  glad  to  hear  it,  sir,"  said  Marner,  with  gather- 
ing excitement;  "but  repenttmce  doesn't  alter  wliat's 

17 


26S  SILAS    MAKNEK. 

been  going  on  for  sixteen  years.  Your  coming  now 
and  saying  'I'm  her  father'  doesn't  alter  the  .feelings 
inside  us.  It's  me  she's  been  calling  her  father  ever 
since  she  could  say  the  word." 

"But  I  think  you  might  look  at  the  thing  more 
reasonably,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  unexpectedly  awed 
by  the  weaver's  direct  truth-speaking.  "It  isn't  as  iF 
she  was  to  be  taken  quite  a>vay  from  you,  so  that  you'd 
never  see  her  again.  She'll  be  very  near  you,  and 
come  to  see  you  very  often.  She'll  feel  just  the  same 
towards  you." 

"Just  the  same?"  said  Marner,  more  bitterly  than 
ever.  "How'll  she  feel  just  the  same  for  me  as  she 
does  now,  when  we  eat  o'  the  same  bit,  and  drink  o' 
the  same  cup,  and  think  o'  the  same  things  from  one 
day's  end  to  another?  Just  the  same?  that's  idle 
talk.     You'd  cut  us  i'  two." 

Godfrey,  unqualified .  by  experience  to  discern  the 
pregnancy  of  Marner's  simple  words,  felt  rather  angry 
again.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  weaver  was  very 
Selfish  (a  judgment  readily  passed  by  those  who  have 
never  tested  their  own  power  of  sacrifice)  to  oppose 
what  was  undoubtedly  for  Eppie's  welfare;  and  he 
felt  himself  called  upon,  for  her  sake,  to  assert  his 
authority. 

"I  should  have  thought,  Marner,"  he  said,  severely 
— "I  should  have  thought  your  affection  for  Eppie 
Would  have  made  you  rejoice  in  what  was  for  her 
good,  even  if  it  did  call  upon  you  to  give  up  some- 
thing. You  ought  to  remember  that  your  own  life  is 
uncertain,  and  that  she's  at  an  age  now  when  her  lot 


blLAy    MAKNEii.  2o^ 

may  soon  be  fixed  in  a  way  very  different  from  what 
it  would  be  in  her  father's  liome:  she  may  marry 
some  low  working-man,  and  then,  whatever  I  might 
do  for  her,  I  couldn't  make  her  well  off.  You're  put- 
ing  yourself  in  tlie  way  of  her  welfare;  and  though 
I'm  sorry  to  hurt  you  after  what  you've  done,  and 
what  I've  left  undone,  I  feel  now  it's  my  duty  to  in- 
sist on  taking  care  of  my  own  daughter.  I  want  to 
do  my  duty." 

It  would  he  difficult  to  say  whether  it  were  Sil^s  or 
Eppie  that  was  most  deeply  stirred  by  this  last  speech 
of  Godfrey's.  Thought  had  been  very  busy  in  Eppie 
as  she  listened  to  the  contest  between  her  old  long- 
loved  father  and  this  new,  unfamiliar  father,  who  had 
suddenly  come  to  fill  the  place  of  that-  black  feature- 
less shadow  which  had  held  the  ring  and  placed  it  on 
her  mother's  finger.  Her  imagination  had  darted 
backward  in  conjectures,  and  forward  in  previsions, 
of  what  this  revealed  fatherhood  implied;  and  there 
were  words  in  Godfrey's  last  speech  which  helped  to 
make  the  previsions  especially  definite.  Not  that 
these  thoughts,  either  of  past  or  future,  determined 
her  resolution — that  was  determined  by  the  feelings 
^vhich  vibrated  to  every  word  Silas  had  lettered;  but 
they  raised,  even  apart  from  these  feelings,  a  repulsion 
towards  the  offered  lot  and  the  newly-revealed  father. 

Silas,  on  the  other  hand,  was  again  stricken  in  con- 
science, and  alarmed  lest  Godfrey's  accusation  should 
lie  true — lest  he  should  be  raising  his  own  will  as  an 
obstacle  to  Eppie's  good.  PV)r  many  moments  he  was 
mute,  struggling  tor  the  self-conquest"ecessury  to  the 


260  SILAS    MARNEK. 

Uttering  of  the  difficult  words.     They  came  out  trem- 
ulously. 

"I'll  say  no  more.  Let  it  be  as  you  will.  Speak 
to  the  child.     I'll  hinder  nothing." 

Even  Nancy,  with  all  the  acute  sensibility  of  her 
own  affections,  shared  her  husband's  view,  that  Mar- 
ner  was  not  justified  in  his  wish  to  retain  Eppie,  after 
her  real  lather  had  avowed  himself.  She  felt  that  it 
was  a  very  hard  trial  for  the  poor  weaver,  but  i^ancy'a 
code  allowed  no  question  that  a  lather  by  blood  must 
have  a  claim  above  that  of  any  foster-father.  Besides, 
Nancy,  used  all  her  life  to  plenteous  circumstances 
and  the  privileges  of  "respectability,'' cpuld  not  enter 
into  the  pleasures  which  early  nurture  and  habit  con- 
nect with  all  the  little  aims  and  efforts  of  the  poor  who 
are  born  poor:  to  her  mind,  Eppie,  in  being  restored 
to  her  birthright,  was  entering  on  a  too  long  withlield 
but  unquestionable  good.  Hence  she  heard  Silas's 
last  words  with  relief,  and  thought,  as  Godfrey  did, 
that  their  wish  was  achieved. 

"Eppie,  my  dear,"  said  Godfrey,  looking  at  his 
daughter,  not  without  some  embarrassment,  under  the 
sense  that  she  was  old  enough  to  judge  him,  "it'll al- 
ways be  our  wish  that  you  should  show  your  love  and 
gratitude  t(5  one  who's  been  a  father  to  you  so  many 
years,  and  we  shall  want  to  help  you  to  make  him 
comfortable  in  every  way.  But  we  hope  you'll  come 
to  love  us  as  well;  and  though  I  haven't  been  what  a 
father  should  have  been  to  you  all  these  years,  I  wish 
to  do  the  utmost  in  my  power  for  you  for  the  rest  of 
my  life,  and  pi||vide  for  you  as  my  only  child.     Afld 


SILAS     MAKNER.  261 

\,.qi*^l  have  the  best  of  mothers  in  my  wife:  that'll  be 
a  blessing  you  haven't  known  since  you  were  old 
onough  to  know  it." 

"My  dear,  youil  be  a  treasure  tc)  me,"  said  Nancy, 
in  her  gentle  voice.  "We  shall  want  for  nothing 
when  we  have  our  daughter." 

Eppie  did  not  come  forward  and  curtsy,  as  she  had 
done  before.  8he  held  Silas's  hand  in  hers,  and  grasped 
It  firmly— it  was  a  weaver's  hand,  with  a  palm  and 
tmger-tips  that  were  sensitive  to  such  pressure—while 
she  spoke  With  colder  decision  than  before. 

*' Thank  you,  ma'am— thank  you,  sir — for  your  of- 
fers; they're  very  great,  and  far  above  my  wish.  For 
I  should  have  no  delight  i'  life  any  more  if  I  wag 
forced  to  go  away  from  my  father,  and  knew  he  was 
sitting  at  home,  a-thinking  of  me  and  feeling  lone. 
We've  been  used  to  be  happy  together  every  day,  and 
I  can't  think  o'  no  happiness  without  him.  And  ho 
says  he'd  nobody  i'  the  world  till  I  was  sent  to  him, 
and  he'd  have  nothing  when  I  was  gone.  And  he's 
took  care  of  me  and  loved  me  from  the  first,  and  I'll 
cleave  to  him  as  long  as  he  lives,  and  nobody  shall 
ever  come  between  him  and  me.'*' 

"But  you  must  make  sure,  Eppie,"  said  Silas,  in  a 
low  voice — "you  must  make  sure  as  you  won't  ever 
be  sorry,  because  you've  made  your  choice  to  stay 
among  poor  folks,  and  with  poor  clothes  and  things, 
when  you  might  ha'  had  everything  o'  the  best." 

His  sensitiveness  o^  this  point  had  increased  as  he 
listened  to  Eppie's  words  of  faithful  aifection. 

"I  can  never  he  sorry,  father,"  said  Eppie.    /'| 


2ti2  siLx\;      MAkNKU. 

shouldn't  know  wjmt  to  'think  on  or  U)  wish  for  ^kli 
fine  things  about  me,  as  I  haven  t  been  used  to.  ;  Ann 
it  'ud  be  poor  work- for  mc  to  put  on  things,  .-md  ride 
HI  a  gig,  and  sit  in  a  place  at  church,  as  'ud  make  them 
as  Vin  fond  of  think  me  unfitting  company  for  'em. 
What  could  /  care  for  then?" 

Nancy  looked  at  Godfrey  with  a  pained  ([uestion- 
ing  glance.  But  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  flooj-, 
where  he  was  moving  the  end  of  his  stick,  as  if  he 
were  pondering  on  something  absently.  She  thought 
there  was  a  word  which  might  perhaps  come  better 
from  her  lips  than  from  his. 

"  What  you  say  Is  natural,  niy  lUar  child — ii .-  u.u- 
ural  you  should  cling  to  those  who've  brought  you 
qp/*  she  said,  mihlly;  ".but  there's  a  duty  you  owe 
to  your  lawful  father.  There's  perhaps  something  to 
be  given  up  on  more  sides  than  one.  When  your 
father  opens  his  home  to  you,  I  think  it's  riglit  you 
shouldn't  turn  your  back  on  it." 

"I  can't  feel  as  IVe  got  any  father  but  one,''  said 
Eppie,  impetuously,  while  the  tears  gathered.  "'I've' 
allavs  thouiiht  of  a  little  home  where  he'd  sit  i'  the 
corner,  and  I  should  fend  and  do  everything  for  him; 
1  can't  think  o'  no  other  home.  I  wasn't  brought  up 
to  bo  a  lady,  and  I  can't  turn  my  mind  to  it.  I  like 
the  working  folks,  and  their  houses,  and  their  ways. 
And,''  she  ended  passionately,  while  the  tears  fell, 
"I'm  promised  to  marry  a  working  man,  as  '11  live 
with  father,  and  help  me  to  take  care  of  him." 

Godfrey  looked  up  at  J^ancy  with  a  flushed  face 
and  a  smarting  dilation  of  the  eyes.     This  frustration 


felLAS    MARNER  'AkTo 

of  a  purpose  towards  which  he  had  set  out  under  the 
exalted  consciousness  that  he  was  about  to  compen- 
sate in  some  degree  for  the  greatest  demerit  of  his 
life,  made  him  feel  the  air  of  the  room  stifling. 

"  Let  us  go,'*  he  said,  in  an  under  tone. 

*'\Ve  won't  talk  of  this  any  longer  now,"  said  Nan- 
cy, rising.  "  We're  your  well-wishers,  my  dear — ^and 
yours  too,  Marner.  We  shall  come  and  see  you 
again.     It's  getting  late  now." 

In  this  way  she  covered  her  husband's  abrupt  de- 
parture, for  Godfrey  had  gone  straight  to  the  door, 
unable  to  say  more. 


'(14  SILAS    MAiiNRU 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Nancy  and  Godfrey  walked  home  under  the  star- 
light in  silence.  When  they  entered  the  oaken  par- 
lour. Godfrey  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  while 
Nancy  laid  down  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  stgod  on 
the  hearth  near  her  husband,  unwilling  to 'leave  him 
pven  for  a  few  minutes,  and  yet  fearing  to  utter  any 
word  lest  it  might  jar  on  his  feeling.  At  last  God- 
frey turned  his  head  towards  her,  and  their  eyes  met, 
dwelling  in  that  meeting  without  any  movement  on 
eithci'  side.  That  quiet  mutual  gaze  of  a  trusting 
husband  and  wife  is  like  the  first  moment  of  rest  or 
refuge  from  a  great  weariness  or  a  great  danger — not 
to  be  interfered  with  by  speech  or  action  which  would 
distract  the  sensations  from  the  fresh  enjoyment  of 
repose. 

But  presently  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  as  Nancy 
placed  hers  within  it,  he  drew  her  towards  him,  and 
said — 

"That's  ended.** 

She  bent  to  kiss  him,  and  then  said,  as  she  stood  by 
his  side,  "Yes,  I'm  afraid  we  must  give  up  the  hope 
of  having  her  for  a  daughter.  It  wouldn't  be  right 
to  want  to  force  her  to  come  to  us  against  her  will. 
We  can't  alter  her  bringing  up  and  what's  come  of  it." 

"No,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  keen  decisiveness  of 


SILAS    M^ViiNliH.         ^  265 

tone,  in  contrast  with  his  usually  careless  and  uneni- 
phatic  speech — "there's  debts  we^can't  pay  like  money 
debts,  by  paying  extra  for  the  years  that  have  slippetV  ^ 
by,  AVinle  I've  been  putting  ofi'  and  putting  oir,  the 
trees  have  been  growing — its  too  late  now.  Manier  i 
was  in  the  right  in  what  he  said  about  a  man's  turn- 
ing away  a  blessing  from  his  door:  it  falls  to  some- 
body else.  I  wanted  to  pass  for  childless  once,  Nan- 
cy— I  shall   pass  for  childless  now  against  my  wish.'' 

Nancy  did  not  speak  immediately,  but  after  a  little 
while  she  asked — "You  won't  make  it  known,  then, 
about  Eppie's  being  your  daughter?'' 

"No — where  would  be  the  good  to  anybody? — 
only  harm.  I  must  do  what  I  can  for  her  in  the  state 
of  Hfe  she  chooses.  I  must  see  who  it  is  she's  think- 
ing of  marrying." 

"If  it  won't  do  any  good'to  make  the  thing  known," 
said  Nancy,  who  though  she  might  now  allow  herself 
the  relief  of  entertaining  a  feeling  which  she  had  tried 
to  silence  before,  "I  should'  be  very  thankful  for 
father  and  Priscilla  nerer  to  be  troubled  with  know- 
ing what  was  done  in  the  past,  more  than  about  Dun- 
sey:  it  can't  be  helped,  their  knowing  that." 

"I  shall  put  it  in  my  will — I  think  I  shall  put  it  in 
my  will.  I  shouldn't  like  to  leave  anything  to  be 
found  out,  like  this  of  Dunsey,"  said  Godfrey,  medita- 
tively. "But  I  can't  see  anything  but  difficulties  that 
'ud  come  from  telHng  it  now.  I  must  do  what  I  can 
to  make  her  happy  in  her  own  way.  I've  a  notion," 
he  added,  after  a*  moment's  pause,  "it's  Aaron  Wip- 
throp  she  meant  she  was  engagjed  to.     I  remember 


seeing  him  with  licr  and  Marner  going  away  froin 
church.'' 

"Well,  he's  very  sober  and  industrious,"  said  Nan- 
cy,, trying  to  view  the  matter  as  cheerfully  as  pos- 
sible. 

Godfrey  i'aW  into  thoughlfulness  again.  Presently 
he  looked  up  at  Nancy  sorrowfully,  and  said— 

"She's  a  very  pretty,  nice  girl,  isn't  she,  Nancy?" 

"Yes,  dear;  and  with  just  your  hair  and  eyes:  I 
wondered  it  had  never  struck  me  before." 

"I  think  she  took  a  dislike  to  me  at  the  thought 
of  my  being  her  father;  I  could  see  a  change  in  her 
manner  alter  that." 

"She  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  not  looking  on  Mar- 
ner as  her  father,"  said  Nancy,  not  wishing  tx)  confirm 
her  husband's  painful  impression. 

"She  thinks  I  did  wrong  by  her  mother  as  well  as 
by  her.  She  thinlvs  me  wors6  than  I  am.  But  she 
must  think  it;  she  can  never  know  all.  It's  part  of 
my  punishment,^  Nancy,  for  my  daughter  to  dislike 
me.  I  should  never  have  got  into  that  trouble  if  I'd 
beeu  true  too  you — if  I  hadn't  been  a  fool.  I'd  no 
right  to  expect  anything  but  evil  could  come  of  that 
marriage,  and  when  I  shirked  doing  a  father's  part 
too. " 

Nancy  vras  silent:  her  spirit  of  rectitude  would  not 
let  her  try  to  sofleu  the  edge  of  what  she  felt  to  be  a 
just  compunction.  He  spoke  again  afler  a  little  while, 
but  t\ie  tone  was  rather  changed:  there  w^  tender- 
ness mingled  with  the  previous  self-reproach. 

**Aud  I  got  you,  Nancy,  in  spite  of  all:  and  yet  Twe 


SILA.S     MAliMp:  ■  '    -.'(.4 

been  grumbling  and  uneasy  because  1  hadn't  some- 
thing else — as  if  I  deserved  it." 

"  Yoa  ve  never  been  wanting  to  me,  Godfrey,"  said 
Nancy,  v,  ith  quiet  sincerity.  "My  only  trouble  would 
be  gone  if  you  resigned  yourself  to  the  lot  that's  been 
given  us." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  isn't  too  late  to  mend  a  bit  there. 
Though  it  is  too  late  to  mend  some  tlnngs,  say  what 
they  will." 


:iij8  SILAS   makm:k. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  next  morning,  when  Silas  and  Eppie  were 
seated  at  their  l>reakrast,  lie  said  to  her — 

"Ej>pie  there's  a  thing  I've  liad  on  my  mind  to  do 
tills  two  }car,  and  now  the  money's  heen  brought  buck 
to  us,  we  can  do  it.  I've  been  turning  it  over  and 
over  in  the  night,  and  I  think  we'll  iet  out  to-morrow, 
while  the  fine  days  last.  We'll  leave  tlje  house  and 
V  everything  for  your  godmother  to  take  care  on,  and 
we'll  make  a  little  bundle  o'  things  and  set  out." 

"Where  to  go,  daddy?"  said  Eppie,  in  much  sur- 
'  prise. 

"To  my  old  country — to  the  town  where  I  was 
born — up  Lantern  Yard.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Pa&ton, 
the  minister:  something  may  ha'  come  out  to  make 
'em  know  I  wat  iunicent  o'  the  robbery.  And  Mr. 
Paston  was  a  man  with  a  deal  o"  light — I  want  to 
speak  to  him  about  the  drawing  o'  the  lota.  And  I 
should  like  to  talk  to  him  about  the  religion  o'  this 
•country-side,  lor  I  partly  think  he  doeirt't  know  on  it.'' 

Eppie  was  very  joyful,  for  there  was  the  prospect 
not  only  of  wonder  and  delight  at  seeing  a  strange 
country,  but  also  of  coming  l>ftck  to  tell  Aaron  all 
about  it.  Aaron  wa«  so  much  wiser  than  she  was 
about  most  things — it  would  be  rather  pleasant  to 
haire  this  little  advaitage  over  him.     Mrs.  W^inthrop, 


SILAS    MARNKK.  26U 

though  possessed  with  a  dim  fear  of  dangers  attend- 
ajit  on  80  long  a  journcj,  and  requiring  many  assur- 
ances that  it  would  not  take  them  out  of  the  region 
of  carrier's  carts  and  slow  waggons,  was  nevertheless 
well  pleased  that  Silas  should  revisit  his  own  country, 
and  find  out  if  he  had  .  been  cleared  from  that  false 
accusation. 

"Youd  be  easier  in  your  mind  for  the  resto'  your 
life,  Master  Marner,'"  said  Dolly — 'j^liat  you  would. 
And  if  there's  any  light  to  be  got  up  the  yard  as  you 
talk  on,  we've  need  of  it  i'  this  world,  and  I'd  be  glad 
on  it  myself,  if  you  could  bring  it  back." 

So,  on  the  foarth  day  from  that  time,  Silas  and  Eppie, 
in  their  Sunday  clothes,  with  a  small  bundle  tied  in 
a  blue  linen  handkerchief,  were  making  their  way 
through  the  streets  of  a  great  manufacturing  town. 
Silas,  bewildered  by  the  changes  thirty  years  had 
bxought  over  his  native  place,  had  stopped  several 
persons  in  succession  to  ask  them  the  name  of*  this 
town,  that  he  might  be  sure  he  was  not  under  a  mis- 
take about  it. 

"Ask  for  Lantern  Yard,  father — ask  the  gtntle/nan 
with  the  tassels  on  his  shoulders  a-standing  at  the 
shop-door;  he  isn't  in  a  hurry  like  the  rest,"  said  Ep- 
pie, in  some  distress  at  her  father's  bewilderment,  and 
ill  at  ease,  besides,  amidst  the  noise,  the  movement, 
and  the  multitude  of  strange  indifferent  faces. 

"Eh,  my  child,  he  won't  know  anything  about  it," 
said  Silas;  "gentlefolks  didn't  ever  go  up  the  yard. 
But  happen  somebody  can  tell  me  which  is  the  way 


to  Prison   Street,  where  the  jail  is.     I  know  the  way 
(Hit  o'  that  ns  if  I'd  seen  it  yesterday."  • 

With  some  difticulty,  after  many  turnings  and  new 
inquiries,  they  reached  Prison  Street |'  and  the  grim 
walls  of  tlie  jail,  the  first  object  that  answered  to  any 
image  iii  Silas's  memory,  cheered  him  with  the  certi- 
tude, wliich  no  assurance  of  the  town's  name  had  hith- 
erto given  him,  that  he  was  in  his  native  place. 

"Ah."  he  sai^  drnwing  a  long  lircalh,  ''there's  the 
jail,  Eppie;  that's  just  the  same:  T  aren't  afraid  now. 
It's  the  third  turning  on  the  left  Im'-^  f'-^n  ih,.  -n]] 
lioors:  that's  the  way  we  must  go." 

"0,  what  a  dark  ugly  plac6!'*  %aid  Epjiie.  "How 
it  hides  the  sky!  It's  worse  than  the  Workhouse. 
I'm  glad  you  don't  live  in  this  town  now  father.  Is 
Lantern  Yard  like  this  street?" 

"My  precious  child,'*  said  Silas,  smiling,  "ij;  isn't 
a  big  street  like  this.  I  never  was  easy  i'  this  strdfet 
myself,  but  I  was  fond  o'  Lantern  Yarr^.  The  shops 
here  are  all  altered,  1  think — I  cant  make  'em  out; 
]>ut  I  shall  know  the  turning,  because  it's  the  third." 

"Here  it  is."'  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  as 
thev  came  to  a  narrow  alley.  "And  then  Ave  must 
go  to  the  left  again,  and  then  straight  for'ard  for  a  bit, 
up  Shoe  Lane;  and  then  we  shall  be  at  the  entry 
next  to  the  o'erhanging  window,  where  there's  the 
nick  in  the  road  for  the  water  to  run.  '  Eh,  I  can  see 
it  all.'' 

"0  father,  I'm  like  as  if  I  was  stifled,'  said  Eppie. 
"I  couldn't  ha'  thought  as  any  folks  lived  i'  this  way, 


SILAS     MAKNKK. 


•>71 


SO  close  togelher.     How  pretty  the  Stone-pits  'uU  look 
when  we  get  back.'' 

"It  looks  comical  to  me,  child,  now — ana  smells 
bad.     I  can't  think  as  it  nsened  to  smell  so." 

Here  and  there  a  sallow  begrimed  flice  looked  out 
from  a  gloomy  doorway  at  the  stran gei|;,  and  increased 
Eppic's  uneasiness,  so  that  it  was  a  longed-for  relief 
when  they  issued  from  the  alleys  into  Shoe.  Lane, 
where  there  was  a  broader  strip  of  sky. 

"Dear  heart!"  said  Silas,  "why,  there's  people 
coming  outo'  the  Yard  as  if  they'd  been  to  chappel  at 
this  time  o'  day — a  weekday  noon!"' 

Suddenly  he  started  and  stood  still. with  a  look  of 
distressed  amazement  that  alarmed  Eppie.  They  were 
before  an  opening  in  front  of  a  large  factory,  froni 
which  men  and  worn  on  wore  streaming  for  their  mid- 
day meal. 

"Father,''  said  Eppic,  clasping  his  arni,  "what's 
the  matter?'" 

But  she  had  to  speak  again  and  again  before  Silas 
could  answer. 

"It's  gone,  child,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  strong  agita- 
tion— "Lantern  Yard's  gone.  It  must  ha'  been  here, 
because  here's  the  house  with  the  overhanging  window 
-»-I  know  that — it's  just  the  same;  but  they've  made 
this  new  opening;  and  see  that  big  factory!  It's  all 
gone — chapel  and  all." 

"Come  into  that  little  brnshshop  and  sit  down,  father 
— they'll  let  you  sit  down,''  said  Eppie,  always  on  the 
watch  lest  one  of  her  father's  strange  attacks  should 
come  on.    "Perhaps  the  people  can  tell  you  allabout  it." 


272  81  LAS    MAliNEB. 

}3ut  neither  from  the  brushmaker,  who  had  come  to 
Shoe  Larie  only  ten  years  ago,  when  the  factory  was 
already  built,  nor  from  any  other  source  within  his 
reach,  could  Silas  learn  anything  of  the  old  Lantern 
Yard  friends,  or  of  Mr.  Paston,  the  minister. 

"The  old  place  is  all  swept  away,"  Silas  said  to 
Dolly  Winthrop  on  the  night  of  liisi  return — "the  lit- 
tle graveyard  and  everything.  The  old  home's  gone; 
I've  no  home  but  this  now.  I  shall  never  know 
whether  they  got  at  the  truth  o'  the  robbery,  nor 
whether  Mr.  Paston  could  ha'  given  me  any  light 
al)out  the  drawing  o'  the  lots.  It's  dark  to  me,  Mrs. 
Winthrop.'that  is;  I  doubt  it'll  be  dark  to  the  last." 

'•Well,  yes,  Master  Marner,"  said, Dolly,  who  sat' 
with  a  placid  listening  face,  now  bordered  by  grey 
hairs;  *'I  doubt  it  may.  It's  the  will  o*  Them  above 
as  a  many  things  should  be  dark  to  us;  but  there's 
some  thijags  as  I've  never  felt  i'  the  dark  about,  and 
they're  mostly  what  cornea  i'  the  day's  work.  You 
were  hard  done  by  that  once,  Master  Marncr,  and  it 
seems  as  you'll  never  know  the  rights  of  it;  but  that 
doesn't  hinder  their  being  a  rights,  Master  Marner, 
for  all  it's  dark  to  you  and  me." 

"No,"  said  Silas,  "no;  that  doesn't  hinder.  Since 
the  time  the  child  was  sent  to  me  and  I've  come  to 
love  her  as  myself,  I've  had  light  enough  to  trusten 
by;  and  now  she  says  she'll  never  leave  me.  I  think 
I  shall  trusten  till  I  die.** 


SILAh     MARNKK  273 


CONCLUSION. 

There  was  one  time  of  the  year  which  was  held  in 
Raveloe  to  be  especially  suitable  for  a  wedding.  It 
was  when  the  great  lilacs  and  laburnums  in  the  old- 
fashioned  gardens  showed  their  golden  and  purple 
wealth  above  the  lichen-tinted  walls,  and  when  there 
were  calves  still  young  enough  to  want  bucketfuls  of 
fragrant  milk.  People  were  not  so  busy  then  as  they 
must  become  when  the  full  cheese-making  and  the 
mowing  had  set  in;  and  besides,  it  was  a  time  when  a 
light  bridal  dress  could  be  worn  with  comfort  and  seen 
to  advantage. 

Happily  the  sunshine  fell  more  warmly  than  usual 
on  the  hlac  tufls  the  morning  that  Eppie  was  married/ 
for  her  dress  was  a  very  light  one.  She  had  often 
thought,  though  with  a  feeling  of  renunciation,  that 
the  perfection  of  a  wedding-dress  would  be  a  white 
cotton,  with  the  tiniest  pink  sprig  at  wide  intervals** 
so  that  when  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  begged  to  provide 
one,  and  asked  Eppie  to  choose  what  it  should  be, 
previous  meditation  had  enabled  her  to  give  a  decided 
answer  at  once. 

Seen  at  a  little  distance  as  .she  walked  across  the 
churchyard  and  down  the  village,  she  seemed  to  be 
attired  in  pure  white,  and  her  hair  looked  like  the 
dash  of  gold  on  a  lily.     One  hand  was  on  her  hus- 

1^ 


bands  arm,  and  witli  the  other  she  clasped  the  hand 
of  her  iather  SiLis. 

"You  wont  be.  giving  nic  away,  father"  she  had 
said  before  they  went  to  church;  "jou'll  only  be  tak- 
ing Aaroji  to  be  a  son  to  you.' 

Dolly  Winlhroj)  walked  bcl;iiid  with  !;cr  hn^^:'   ' 
and  there  ended  the  little  bridal  procession. 

There  were  many  eyes  to  look  at  it.  and  IMiss  Pris- 
cilla  Lam  meter  was  glad  thai  she  and  her  father  had 
happened  to  drive  u|>  to  the  door  of  the  "Red  House 
just  in  Umc  to  «ee  this  pretty  sight.  They  had  come 
fo  keep  Nancy  company  to-day,  b'-cause  Mr.  Cass  had 
had  to  go  away  to  Lytherly,  for  special  reasons.  That 
seemed  to  be  a  pity,  for  otherwiRc  he  micjht  have  gone, 
;ls  Mr.  Orackenthorp  and  Mr.  Osgood, certainly  would, 
to  look  (^n  at  the  wedding-feast  which  he  had  ordered 
at  the  Kuinbow.  naturally  feeling  a  great  interest  in 
the  Weaver  who  had  been  wronged  by  one  of  his  own 
family. 

•r  could  ha  wished  Nancy  had  had  the  luck  to 
find  a  child  like  that  and  bring  her  up,"  said  Priscilla 
to  her  father  as  they  sat  in  the  gig;  **I  should  ha' 
had  something  young  to  think  ol  then,  besides  the 
lambs  and  the  calves."' 

"Yes,  my  dear,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Lamraeter;  "one 
loels  that  as  one  orets  older.  Things  look  dim  to  old 
folks:  they'd  need  have  some  young  eyes  about  'em, 
to  let  "em  know  the  world  s  the  .<ame  as  it  used  to  be." 
Naucy  came  out  bow  to  welcome  her  father  and 
sister,  and  the  wedding  group  had  passed  on  beyond 
the  Red  House  to  the  humbler  part  of  the  Tillaae. 


SI  J,  A-     MAIJNEK 


Dolly  Winthrop  was  the  first  to"  divine  that  old  Mr. 
Macey,  who  had  been  set  in  his  orFii-chair  outside  hi  - 
own  door,  tvould  expect  some  special  noticr  as  the; 
passed,  since  he  was  too  old  to  be  at  tlie  wedding- 
ieast. 

'•Mr.  Maeey's  lookinir  for  a  word  from  us,"  said 
DoPy;  "he'll  be  hurt  if  \v^  pass  him  and  say  nothing 
-^and  iiim  so  racked  with  rbciimatiz."' 

So  they  turned  aside  to  shake  hands  with  the  old 
man.  He  had  looked  forward  to  the  occasion,  and 
had  bis  premjsditated  speech. 

"Well,  Master  Mainer,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
^qua\ered  a  good  deal,  "I've  lived  to  see  my  works 
come  true.  T  was  Ihe  first  to  say  there  was  no  harm 
in  you,  though  your'looks  might  be  agin'  yon;  and  I 
was  the  first  to  say  you'd  get  your  money  back.  And 
it's  nothing  but  rightful  as  you  should.  And  I'd  ha' 
said  the  'Amens,'and  willing,  at  the  holy  mattimony; 
but  Tookey's  done  it  a  good  while  now,  and  I  hope 
you'll  have  none  the  worse  luck." 

In  the  op>^,n  yard  before  the  Rainbow,  the  party  of 
guests  were  already  assembled,  though  it  was  still 
nearly  an  hour  Jjefore  the  appointed  feast-time.  Put 
by  this  means  they  could  not  only  enjoy  the  slow  ad- 
vent of  their  ph  asure;  they  had  also  ample  leisure  to 
talk  of  Silas  Marner's  strange  history,  and  arrive  by 
due  degrees  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had  brought  a 
,  blessing  on  himself  by  acting  like  a  father  to  a  lone 
motherless  child.  Even  the  farrier  did  not  negative 
this  sentiment:  on  the  contrary,  he  took  it  up  as  pe- 
culiarly his  owh,  and  invited  any  hardy  person  pre**- 


^»..^»<5i.    H.^  =^ 


\.^' 


Mit  tA  contradict  liim.     But  h< 

ftbd  all  difference*}  among  tlio  coiiipji 
merged  in  a  general  a^rcemert  with  Mr.  Snd! 
iient,  that  when  u  niati  hml  di.s«T\ed  his 
it  was  the  pari  of  his  nrighbour*;  io  wish' 
As  the  l)ridal  gr«ui)  apprciached.  n  h' 
was  raised  iu  the  Haiiibow  yard;  nhd  1?»mi  AVinthrop. 
whose  joKes  had  retained   their   acicptahle  flavour, 
found  i(  'de  to  turn  in  there  and  receive  ron 

^       .  r(inipaTi\ 

Epj)ie  had  a  larger  <7aril 
id  there  VOW;  and  r  ways  itn- 

'     ■        ■'  -  '      f 

lMli.--.Tl.llt.''>        ilAUlMl.  I''l        ■•<         iklKI        »>j 

■d  thai  they  \vvuM  rather  stay  at   th- 
than  go  to  any  new^ome.     The  garden   was  ft: 
with  stonet.  on  two  s^es,  but  in  front  there  was  an 

I  ienee.  through  ^ich   the   llowrrs  she  'Ii 

•O  fjither,'*  said  Eppie,  '^^^^^^  pretty  home  ours 
dnk  nobody  could  beJiappier  than  we  are." 

\ 

THE    ENl> 


T; 


//t-/t#/ 


